Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [10]
Stonar looked flustered, but he laughed nevertheless. "They may be naive, but as long as you are their hero, they are in good hands, Greyt," he said. He rose and gathered up his cape. "I'm leaving you in charge of Quaervarr during my absence. See that you protect the people while I am away in Silverymoon. I shall be back before Greengrass, seven days hence, I expect."
Whatever difference your absence makes, Greyt mused silently. Instead, he offered a winning smile. "Of course, my lord," he sighed. "Consider them safe."
When Stonar opened the door to leave, Greyt stopped him with a soft call. "Stonar?"
"Aye?"
"What do Clearwater and Unddreth have to say about this?" he asked.
"Why, nothing," Stonar said. "I was elected to represent these people, I make the decisions. I trust Unddreth to do his job; he always does. As for Amra Clearwater… well, the Silvanites have a festival to prepare for. If you even see her, I'd be surprised." With that, Speaker Geth Stonar passed out the inlaid doors of Greyt's lavish sitting room.
Greyt nodded, smiling. The appointment of the task was unexpected, but the trust Stonar exhibited amused him. Particularly since Greyt could easily use the position to undermine the Speaker's authority. Perhaps now was the time to set long overdue plans in motion.
He looked out the window and saw that the rain was clearing outside. It was turning out not to be such a bad morning after all. There would be no hunting, but at least it wouldn't look so dismal outside. The fading drizzle on the rooftop was pleasant.
He began singing to himself, a tale of Thadax Gray wolf, a mighty warlord of the north and an ancestor of his, as he considered what he would ask the servant to bring him for a noon meal.
* * * * *
Quaervarr was a simple frontier town in the southern depths of the untamed Moonwood. A crude wall of felled trees encircled no more than fifty buildings. The cobbled main street-the greatest thoroughfare of the town-ran from the single gate straight to the plaza. The side streets were narrow and twisting, giving Quaervarr the feeling of a larger city, but rarely cobbled, as in Silverymoon or Everlund, maintaining the rustic atmosphere. Moon elves lived in the southern fringes of the Moonwood and existed in a state of benevolent neutrality with the human town, allowing it to stand as a symbol of peace and cooperation between the races.
In the recent past, Quaervarr had been a fort, plagued by the werebeasts of the Black Blood, but no more, not since adventurers and soldiers of the Argent Legion had driven the cultists out. These days, travelers could always find a welcoming smile, a warm bed, and a hearty mug of ale at Quaervarr's renowned inn, the Whistling Stag.
With the Greengrass festival fast approaching, however, room vacancies were at a premium. The end of winter and the beginning of spring demanded celebration, and excitement was in the air. Hundreds of men and woman scurried every which way, making preparations.
The three Knights in Silver were acutely aware of the unusually bustling activity in the peaceful town, and the leader hoped they might find any room at all.
Heroes by appearance alone, the knights attracted smiles and shouts from running children, who hopped alongside the horses as fast as they could. The lead knight, slim of build, looked down at each one with a smile barely hidden behind a silver-inlaid helmet. A lance stood up from the rear of the saddle, and a fine Everlundian long sword hung next to it. A shield with a star and nightingale was on the knight's arm. The two others-much less elegant in poise and carriage-rode approximately level with one another, exchanging bemused glances. They were engaged in quiet banter, as always.
"I say, Bars, that didn't seem very wise to me," one of the knights, a slender man in mail, said to the other. An ornate long sword hung