Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [122]
Mercifully, Arya chose to remain silent about the events of fifteen years previous-Walker did not think he could stomach a retelling of his murder. In addition, he lived, once again, in mystery-a mystery that kept all the citizens, except for the most inquisitive (and foolish) children, away from him as he rested and healed. The silver wolf's head ring was back around his finger, helping his wounds re-knit and his scars disappear, a process that Walker had gone through so many times he hardly even felt the itchy tingling running through his body.
Hardly, that is to say, except for four particular wounds. With the deaths of Greyt and Meris, the flesh they had broken could finally heal. Though he would carry the scars, and speak in a whisper to the end of his days, Walker felt nearly whole.
Then a pain seized him and Walker's tranquil frown dipped.
That was when he knew he was not fully whole. He had one task still to complete, one last wrong to set right, one last crime to avenge. He had one last life to take.
Shifting into his ghostsight, Walker turned to the side, expecting to see the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn, who had always given him silent guidance. But there was no spirit there.
Walker smiled. He remembered watching the spirits of Tarm and Lyetha fade, reunited at last in death. He also remembered the gentle, sweet emotion that had swept through him at the time-love, the kind of feeling Walker knew when he looked upon Arya Venkyr.
Arya.
Walker looked over at her as she addressed a body of gathered citizens, much as Lord Greyt had done in the past. She had cleaned her hair and wounds after the battle, and Bars had applied his healing touch to her as well. The knight was radiant in the fading sunlight that filtered through the clouds, the silver of her armor gleaming and her hair burning. As though she noticed him watching, she drew herself up straighter and tiny spots of red bloomed in her cheeks.
How could she ever understand what he had to do? How could he explain it to her?
Walker decided he could not. He simply had to do it.
With a sigh-a gesture that would have seemed foreign to him a few days ago-he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked away.
* * * * *
Smiling broadly at the shouts of support, Arya turned away from the crowd and massaged her throat. Shouting for such a long time had worn out her voice, but it had been worth it. Her mission was accomplished: the threat to stability in the Silver Marches removed. Finally, she could relax.
A strand of auburn hair blew in her face, and she brushed it aside. As soon as she had done so, though, she realized something was amiss.
Walker was not there.
Gripped by sudden, unreasoning panic, Arya scanned the plaza. She caught sight of him at last, striding toward the main street of the town, as though to leave.
"Walker!" she called, breaking into a run. At the sound of her voice, he stopped and let her hurry to his side. She put gauntleted fingers on his arm. "You're going?"
Rather than looking at her, Walker's eyes were far away.
"All my scars are healed, all my enemies dead," he said. "All but one." He put his hand over his heart.
Confused, Arya covered that hand with her own. Walker smiled at the touch.
"I don't understand," she said. "Who else is there?"
"My teacher," replied Walker. "She who taught me my powers. She who betrayed me." He paused, as though digesting that.