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Murderous eyes, a war cry, a sword, and a flail were there to greet him.

* * * * *

"You've come back… so soon," said Greyt, startled but thinking fast.

"Surprised to see me, Father?" asked Meris, spinning the shatterspike so that it clicked against the fine oak of the desk. His hand axe lay imbedded in two volumes of Waterdhavian history that Greyt had left stacked there. " 'Tis no matter. I think we both know why I am here." Meris's voice was slurred, as though his tongue were swollen or he were in his cups.

Against his polished white leather, Meris's dusky features seemed especially exotic, and for a moment, Greyt had not recognized him as his son.

Coolly, the Lord Singer crossed to the sideboard and took two glasses, into which he poured the remainder of the elverquisst he carried.

"Talthaliel told me you would come," Greyt said. "That my son would come to kill me, but that he wouldn't defeat my mage."

"Did he?" Meris asked. He hefted the ghostly shatterspike and his hand axe. "Sorry, but he's indisposed at the moment. Outside. Fighting Rhyn-er, I mean Walker."

Eyes widening, Greyt tipped over the glass in surprise. He barely managed to throw his aging body out of the way to dodge Meris's thrust.

"Traitor elf!" he shouted as he whipped his golden rapier out of its scabbard and fell into a fencing stance almost as though it were second nature. His old muscles protested, but he was glad-for the first time-that he had continued sparring practice.

Standing a few paces away, Meris laughed and waved the shatterspike mockingly.

"Wonderful scheme, father," he said. "You were to become the hero of Quaervarr-a fifth time over? Gods! How much do you have to do? Has any level of brainless worship ever been enough for you? Who are you trying to convince-them, or yourself?"

"Bastard!" Greyt shrieked. He lunged at Meris.

The dusky scout casually parried his sword aside. "Indeed, but that's beside the point," replied Meris. "The point is, when I go outside next, they will all hear how I killed Walker, how I killed the renegade knights, and how I killed the 'mad Lord Singer.' I will be their hero, not you. You're just a murderer, and a mad one at that."

"You treacherous little bastard," spat Greyt.

"You keep calling me that. Sounds more like an insult to you than to me." Then he laughed. "Amazing how history repeats itself-this reminds me of fifteen years ago when you killed your own 'mad' father."

"You knew about that-you were with me the night Rhyn Thardeyn died, the night we murdered your grandfather and the others!" protested Greyt. "Rhyn-you killed him! You took the ring off, in your youthful ignorance-"

"No, Father," said Meris. "Purpose. I hated him and I wanted him dead. And I did it. Perhaps I didn't understand at the time, but I do now, and I don't regret it."

Greyt was horrified. He remembered that night, when he had taken Rhyn into the forest to frighten him, to chase him away. To have Lyetha to himself, to remove any reminder of Tarm Thardeyn, the priest he had killed years before. Meris had removed the healing ring before Greyt's scarring blow, and Greyt's wolf's head ring had been lost in the following argument.

And now… now he knew it had been no accident. Meris had been murderous even then.

"Foul creature!" he shouted. "How can Quaervarr accept you, once they know that you are just as great a monster as I?"

The Lord Singer thrust at his son again, but Meris was ready. He knocked the blow aside with his hand axe and lashed out with the shatterspike, tearing a neat red line down Greyt's left arm. The Lord Singer gasped and fell back, though he kept the golden rapier up.

"Correction, father," Meris said with a grin. "I am a greater monster than you will ever be. And, as for Quaervarr-well, who will believe you, a madman?"

"Spoiled brat, I am their hero!" Greyt asserted. "They will believe me, and my magic will persuade them even if they do not!"

Meris shrugged. "Then I guess I'll