Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [18]
Winter lilies and frost roses stood in bright array among emerald stems and leaves, curled into bunches along a golden banister. The flowers might have been picked that morning; they were so soft and vibrant. The ones that gave the trick away, however, were the stunning fire-dragons-snapdragons so red the people of the north claimed they were slain dragons reborn. The burning petals sparkled with dew, but Arya knew they only bloomed in the warmth of Flamerule. There was no way Greyt could have had them gathered that morning.
"Admiring the blooms, Lady Sir Venkyr?" Derst asked. "Pretty this time of year, eh?"
Arya smiled wryly. "Oh, indeed, Sir Goldtook," she replied. "As you can see, they're quite lovely." She inhaled a fire-dragon deeply, wondering about the fragrance, but there was nothing. The flower was stale and had obviously been dead for some time. Magic.
Appearances, in Greyt's house, were everything.
The door clicked and three pairs of eyes turned as Greyt's steward Claudir entered. "The Lord Singer of the Silver Marches, Dharan Greyt," he said. The three knights started at the odd title, but quickly composed themselves.
At that announcement, Greyt swept into the room. Trailing his rich violet cape behind him and clad in his finest black doublet, the man was resplendent in his noble attire. His dark blond hair was swept back and his blue eyes sparkled. A rapier with a golden basket hilt hung from a beautifully embroidered and stitched belt around his hips. If the knights didn't know better, they would have thought him the lord of Quaervarr, if not the lord of Silverymoon itself. He was smiling as though it was habitual. He paused, ducked into a low bow, and folded his hands in front of him.
"Well met, Uncle," Arya said with a slight curtsy, even though she was wearing a man's leggings and not a skirt. Arya was not much for dresses.
"Ah, my beloved niece, what a pleasant surprise," Greyt said with a grin as he took Arya's fingers. He bent and kissed the young woman's hand with an exaggerated bow, then stepped back to examine her. He gazed at the star and nightingale design on her tunic, the arms of House Venkyr. "Nightingale of Everlund, you would teach nymphs beauty."
Arya blushed, though she could have sworn she had read that particular bit of poesy somewhere before. Ignoring Bars's and Derst's bemused looks, Arya forced a neutral smile. She knew this contrived manner-the style of court-and could play at it if necessary.
"Speak plainly, please, Uncle," Arya said. "I lack your training in such poetry."
Greyt bowed his head a little. "You have grown into quite the young woman, niece. When I last saw you-what was it, a dozen years ago?-you were only half as tall and not nearly as… full-bodied." His grin was waxy and his eyes glittered. He turned away, went to the side table, and poured two glasses of a sparkling red wine.
Arya felt her face growing warm-again-and could hear her companions' snickers from behind her. She would have shot a glance back at the two young knights, but it would only have made them laugh louder. "My thanks, Uncle," she said. "Time has been kind to you as well."
Greyt inclined his head.
Composing herself with a brief repetition of the knight's code, she met his gaze levelly. "Allow me to introduce my companions, Sir Bars Hartwine and Sir Derst Goldtook, of the Knights in Silver."
The Lord Singer bowed and proceeded to ignore them. The knights shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Greyt indicated the couch with one glass, but Arya made no move to sit. He shrugged indifferently.
"I must admit, your arrival comes as a bit of a surprise," he said as he handed the wine glass to Arya. She accepted it gracefully and inhaled the aroma but did not drink. Leaning against the sideboard, Greyt continued.