Ghostwalker (37 page)

“Druid Clearwater?” asked Arya wonderingly. She ran toward her.

“No, wait!” Walker shouted, but it was too late to stop the knight.

Arya knelt beside Clearwater and felt at her throat. Even as Arya confirmed that the druid rested in a magical slumber, the vines that held the druid prisoner began to twitch and sway, as though with an eerie mind of their own. Arya gasped and scrambled back from the vines that reached, fingerlike, to ensnare her arms and legs. Despite her struggling, they caught her, pulled, and dragged her to her knees.

Walker sprang to her side, the shatterspike whistling through the air as he sliced low and then high, horizontally over Arya’s head, severing two thick tendrils of vines that held the knight fast. Freed for a moment, Arya managed to draw her sword and hack away at a vine that had caught her left arm. After two swings, it ripped apart and whipped through the air like a snake, recoiling from the knight.

“Back!” Walker commanded, and Arya staggered away, leaving him next to the enwrapped Amra Clearwater.

The entangling vines did not attack the ghostwalker, however—almost as though he were not there. Instead, the vines coiled snugly around Clearwater’s limp form, awaiting their next target.

“Are you amused, Gylther’yel?” he called, his voice rolling across the grove. “Are you watching us from hiding, awaiting the time to strike us down?”

There came no response. Arya looked at Walker, but he waved to the knight, reassuring her.

“Have you become a watcher once more, apart from the affairs of humans?” he asked.

The grove was silent.

“Or are you afraid?” he pressed. “Afraid to show yourself, because I remind you so keenly of your failure?”

The Ghostly Lady appeared, rising from the ground in a mist, her ghostly body as insubstantial as the spirits Walker saw every moment. Afraid? she asked, her voice sounding in Walker’s mind. I fear nothing.

“I have left the ghostly realm,” said Walker. “Face me upon the ground of mortals.”

Why, when the two of us should be gods? Gylther’yel asked in reply. When Walker said nothing, she laughed. Very well. Then her form became substantial. Arya, who had never seen her, was stunned at her golden beauty in the fading sunlight.

“You pick a fitting time to come against me, Rhyn Greyt,” she said in Elvish. “When the sun of life sets and Selune rises, bringing the night in her wake. The night is our ally, a friend to all of us who dwell in darkness.”

“I have come to destroy you,” Walker said in the Common tongue.

Gylther’yel merely laughed. “The prodigal son has lost his way, and returns with helpless dreams of violence,” she replied in kind. “You have no inkling of my power.”

“Nevertheless, I have come to sweep your perversion from the face of Faerun,” said Walker, drawing his sword.

“My perversion?” asked Gylther’yel. Both humans could hear the anger in her voice, anger hidden carefully behind a mask of ice. “My perversion? Have you forgotten that it was I who taught you your own perverse powers? I who returned you to life when you should be dead? If anything, we share the same corruption.”

She waved at Arya, where she stood at Walker’s side with her sword and shield up, but Gylther’yel addressed Walker.

“You favor the living, though you and I belong in the cult of the dead. Rhyn, you disappoint me. I had thought your mind broader than that of a mere human.”

“This is my choice,” said Walker.

“You merely confirm my over-estimation of your intellect,” said Gylther’yel. “Humans cannot choose. Lyetha could not choose between Dharan Greyt and Tarm Thardeyn until circumstance forced her hand. Dharan Greyt could not choose between weeping for the love he had lost and vengeance against the man—and the boy—who had stolen her, until I called to him fifteen years ago. Meris Wayfarer could not choose between fear of his father and vengeance, until I ordered him to slay his father… and you, his brother.”

She laughed. “Even your little pet there, Arya Venkyr, cannot choose between justice and her heart.” She turned her attention on the knight, who bristled at her words. “How do you justify yourself, Nightingale of Everlund, loving a man who espouses the very darkness and murder you deny? Walker, the avenger, the assassin? Vengeance is not justice, and Walker is nothing if not a vengeful god.”

Arya’s mouth moved, as though to argue with the ghost druid, but she found she could not. She turned her head, shamed.

Gylther’yel smiled. Then she turned back to Walker.

“And you cannot choose between loyalties,” she said. “Loyalty to she who raised you from a child, and loyalty to she who would carry your child, she whom you love.” The ghost druid spat the last word.

There it was. Walker knew the words to be true. His resolution wavered and faltered, stolen by the damning accusation. Desperately, Walker opened his mouth to argue.

“Do not attempt to deny it,” she added, interrupting Walker’s words. “I sense the conflict within you, the struggle to raise your blade. You cannot choose. You claim to dwell in darkness, Rhyn Greyt, you claim resolve and unwavering resolution, but you dwell in ambivalence only.”

“You betrayed me,” said Walker as he lifted the shatterspike and pointed it toward the ghost druid. His resolution had wavered, but now anger replaced it—a long—simmering rage that had been galvanized by the sound of his blood name. “I was your guardian—and you betrayed me. I have no choice but to—”

Gylther’yel laughed aloud. “And so you allow me to make your choice for you, once again,” she said. “Young fool. You have never ‘chosen,’ all your life—all has been as I have directed, all as I have planned. I created your vengeance, so that you would wipe the truth away. I delayed you these fifteen years so that your foes would not recognize you as the boy they had killed and reveal the truth. The weak-willed Meris was the final test—of your abilities and your loyalties—and you have passed that test. I have made you my willing tool, my dark falcon, my hunting wolf, who claims independence and cannot sense the leash that binds him to me.”

It sounded so preposterous—had not Gylther’yel been the one stopping his vengeance? Had not she tried to kill him with Meris, first in the forest, then in Quaervarr? But something inside Walker, something buried in the depths of his heart, knew—hoped—it to be true.

“Why? How could you do this to me?” asked Walker through clenched teeth.

Gylther’yel assumed a hurt expression.

“Everything I have done, I have done for love of you,” she said. “To strengthen you. To raise the god of ghosts you have become, Son.”

“Son?” asked Walker in complete astonishment. In his heart, though, he felt that she spoke the truth. Or, rather, he prayed with every fiber of his being that she spoke the truth.

The shatterspike shook in his trembling hand and he fell to his knees. The emotions he had kept long suppressed were surfacing with terrible force. Gylther’yel was right—even as she had betrayed him, he had known that his reins belonged to her. As he thought back to every argument, he realized that she had manipulated him into his course. Gylther’yel, the stern, distant mother, controlled his every action with an iron hand and velvet words.

“Walker?” Arya asked, reaching out to comfort him. Gylther’yel’s eyes flicked to her, and she extended a clawed hand toward the knight.

Sudden tremors tore through the grove and threw Arya to the ground. A hulking claw of earth erupted from the ground and caught her between its five fingers. The knight screamed and struggled, but the fingers—each as thick as her body—were too strong. The claw closed around her and held her aloft, even as Gylther’yel closed her hand halfway and smiled.

The ghostwalker, stunned at the ghost druid’s attack, had just leaped to his feet when a ring of fire surrounded him, cutting him off from Arya. He slashed at the flames with his shatterspike, and the tip of the blade glowed red with heat.

“Walker!” screamed Arya. “Don’t give up! Don’t give in to—” Her words were cut off in a screech of pain as Gylther’yel closed her hand tighter and the claws closed around Arya’s body. The vines that bound the unconscious Amra Clearwater reached up and began whipping at the knight, tearing at her metal armor and exposed skin.

Walker instantly retreated into etherealness, meaning to leap through the flames and attack, but Gylther’yel’s fire burned just as brightly there. Walker cursed himself for a fool—of course the ghost druid’s magic pierced the veil between worlds. Such was the nature of the netherworld powers they shared.

Fighting the helpless rage that clawed at his heart, Walker turned back to Gylther’yel and held his sword low to the ground.

Why? he asked, and the words flowed from his mind, but, in his sinking heart, he knew the answer. She had lied. This was an attempt to delay him, not to express any real love. Gylther’yel had indeed sent Meris to kill him. Her words had startled him, and he had fallen into her trap.

Gylther’yel wove her hands in another casting, and the wall of fire began to close around Walker. Once again, and for the last time, I make your choice for you, she said in his head. You have the choice to die, the choice I denied you fifteen years ago, and I choose that you will take it now.

He had been a fool to trust in Gylther’yel, a fool to listen to her coaxing words. Meris had not been a test—he had been Gylther’yel’s attempt to slay her errant guardian. It had all been a trick, a trap designed to stab at his deepest desire—the desire for another.

It was so welcoming, so easy to fall into the embrace of a mother, or a father, or even a lover, and to let his choices be determined by another. So easy….

And now he would pay the price for his dependence, his lack of self-worth, a fault that had been buried beneath years of darkness, vengeance, and hatred. All of his life was coming to an end, all of his strength was unraveling.

The ghostwalker knew himself defeated.

Wriggling, ignoring the crushing pain that threatened to shatter her limbs, Arya finally managed to pull her blade free. She brought the borrowed Quaervarr steel down on the earthen hand, sending sparks and shards flying. Though her arm soon went numb from the ringing vibrations her swings caused, she sent a spider web of cracks across the thumb of the hand.

Suddenly a soul-wrenching cry that broke into a high-pitched wail shattered her concentration. The scream split the boundaries of life and death and jarred her very soul.

Walker’s scream.

Panicked, Arya looked over at the ghost druid and ghostwalker and her breath caught. Walker had vanished, but somehow she could feel him there. Even now, she knew he fought beyond her physical sight, but not beyond the range of her heart.

Nor, she realized, beyond the range of her voice.

Though she could not see him, his ghostsight would allow him to see—and more importantly hear—her.

“Rhyn Thardeyn!” she cried. “Rhyn Thardeyn! I believe in you, Rhyn! I believe in you!”

As she shouted those words, words that did not even break Gylther’yel’s concentration, she brought her sword down on the stone finger with one last mighty blow. The blade was terribly notched and bent but it held for this one last swing. Cracked beyond endurance, the stone split apart with a scream—a scream that matched Gylther’yel’s own scream. Arya looked to see blood gushing from the torn thumb of the ghost druid’s right hand.

Gylther’yel turned to Arya with murder in her eyes. With a snap of her fingers, Arya’s bent sword suddenly glowed white hot and tumbled from her hand. Even as Arya cursed and drew her belt dagger to throw, Gylther’yel brought down the fires of nature upon the knight.

And Arya screamed as she had never screamed before.

I believe in you!

In the depths of a shaking Ethereal, Arya’s face flashed across his vision, vision that was blurred between the two worlds. At once he saw her body writhing in agony—gripped by the hand of earth, slashed by animate thorn vines, and illumined in a column of fire. Her spirit was screaming one thing: his name. He could feel the pain and terror rippling through the shadowy half-world, but also love—love that burned more brightly than the flames that tore at it.

His first real choice—the choice that brought him from Gylther’yel’s clutches—had been made in Arya’s arms. Arya had become the source of his strength and resolve; in her arms, he knew a stronger power, a greater determination than anything rage or hatred could muster.

He would not give up. He would not yield to Gylther’yel’s lies and deceit.

Then a memory, a memory not of love but of horrible pain, flashed across his mind. A memory long buried in his mind but uncovered in Gylther’yel’s words, the walls chipped away by the chisel of Walker’s love for Arya.

“Greyt could not choose until I sent him….” she had said.

Through newly opened ears, he heard again the ghost druid’s subtle admission that she had met Greyt fifteen years previous.

Suddenly, spirits surrounded him, the spirits of his attackers, speaking again the words he remembered, the words by which he had condemned them. He did not hear them, though.

There was only one cold, familiar voice.

Whether you will or no.

Two spirits appeared over him, those of Lyetha and Tarm. They looked down at him sadly, but he could see the light of hope on their faces—tragic, resigned hope, but hope nonetheless.

And, suddenly, Walker knew what must be done.

Forgive me, Arya, he said to his beloved knight on the ethereal winds. I must pay for my sins. My vengeance must be complete. It has to end.

Walker? came her startled reply. He did not know how she, in the Material world, had even heard, nor how she replied. Then a swell of love, so tragic it tore his cold heart asunder, threatened to overwhelm Walker. He had to let it flow past him. Walker!

You are my perfect melody, he said to Arya, and I shall sing of you forever. The song of the Nightingale—the lay of the ghost she taught to love.

Walker, what are you doing? asked Arya. Then she felt his emotions resonating through the shadows and she knew. He felt her terror, and knew that she realized his desperate plan. Walker, no! Please! Don’t—