Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [112]
But they were not the eyes of Walker.
Angry tears streaming down her cheeks, Lyetha pushed with all her strength, driving the dagger through Meris's white leather armor and into the tough flesh beneath. She had stabbed near the spot Greyt's knife had found, but her blade followed an angle that cut deep into his bowels.
Their gazes locked for a moment, and the two shared a terrible understanding. Meris saw in Lyetha's beautiful eyes the final cruelty, the last crime that could be committed against her.
He saw the death of her love.
Never had Meris seen something that stunned him-or frightened him-as much as the fury in those eyes.
"For my husband," she said, steel on her tongue. "And for my son."
Meris blinked in reply.
Only when the darkness down the hall swirled and Walker materialized did Meris awaken and realize where he was and what had happened. With a flourish, he dropped his hand to the shatterspike's hilt.
"No!" shouted Walker, leaping forward.
It was too late, though, for Meris drew the blade out and across Lyetha's chest, sending blood sailing. Slowly, as though time itself stood still, the beautiful half-elf fell back into Walker's arms. The ghostwalker, panic and wrenching pain on his face, gazed into her eyes.
Meris, who had never seen Walker express emotion, blinked in stunned silence at the depth of the ghostwalker's mourning, and it sent a pang through his heart. He did not even think of attacking, though Walker was defenseless.
Lyetha looked up at Walker as though she did not recognize him, for a long, agonizing breath. Then her brows rose and a soft smile creased her face where only a pained grimace had been before. She gripped his hand with renewed strength, as though finally understanding a secret only the two of them knew. Held in Walker's arms, Lyetha drifted into death as Meris watched. At last, her eyes shifted past Walker's shoulder, and her lips moved.
"Well met again, Tarm," she said.
Then Lyetha died, a peaceful smile on her face.
Though Meris knew he should have attacked, should have sent his blade screaming for Walker's head in the man's moment of vulnerability, he could not. Some part of him caught the sight of something greater than himself-for the first time in his life-and it stayed his hand. Or perhaps it was his fear of the unknown. He did not understand-indeed, he could not begin to fathom-the emotional depth of the scene before him, and confusion ran through him and with it, terror.
Meris knew then, for the first time, the full measure of his foe, and he was terrified.
* * * * *
Even as he watched her spirit fade away, embracing that of Tarm Thardeyn, Walker gently laid his dead mother on the soft carpet and rose to face Meris, who still stood, apparently dumbfounded. Reaching down to his belt, Walker slowly drew out the guardsman's sword and pointed it across the short distance that separated him from Meris. The wild scout responded by raising his own weapon-Walker's shatterspike-and pointing it at the ghostwalker. The points of the blades almost touched.
Meris calmly pulled the knife out of his belly, grimacing as blood leaked out. Not taking his eyes from the ghostwalker, Meris dropped a hand to his belt, drew out a steel-encased potion, and quaffed it.
Walker watched as the blood flowing down the white leather slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely. His eyes darted into the study, and he saw Greyt's corpse. Somehow, even knowing that his vengeance was done did not calm the rage that boiled within his heart.
"This will be our final duel," Walker assured him. "You will pay for all you have done."
"I'm sure I will," Meris replied. "We've looked forward to this duel-you and I both." He rolled the sword over in the air, and its mithral surface glinted almost gold in the torchlight. "But I have the advantage, my friend."
In response, Walker held up his bandaged left hand, upon the fourth finger of which