Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [20]
"Aren't you a bit concerned, Uncle?" Arya asked, shifting uncertainly. "The Cult of the Black Blood is rebuilding, according to the rumors my father has heard at court. Could this not be one of their men? Or perhaps even their leader, this-"
"Jarthon," Greyt said. "And no. I doubt even the People of the Black Blood would be so stupid as to attack in public. The Beast Lord's foul spawn seem to have left us for good." He shuddered but quickly composed himself. He sank back into the couch and swirled his wine. "But, if, as I hope, some triviality will not interrupt us again, do continue your tale."
Perturbed but determined not to show it, Arya kept the false smile on her face-even as it pained her-and took a sip of her wine.
* * * * *
Meris suppressed a sigh of disgust as he followed Claudir through the halls of Greyt's manor. Hunting trophies, tapestries, statues, and treasures-from adventuring, supposedly-adorned the place, gaudy and mostly fake. Meris could tell at a glance.
The old man's power and charm impressed him, but he did not allow it to reduce him to a simpering moron like the rest of the people of Quaervarr. He could see right through the old Singer, with the penetrating eye only a wayward son can acquire.
Meris was always honest with those around him-he didn't put on a pleasant face or a charming facade to impress the pitiful fools who surrounded him.
Still, Meris respected the old man's success, a success won through deceit and charisma. And he did like the Greyt fortune. Besides, as much as it pained him to admit it, he held a sort of subtle tolerance of his aging father. Perhaps it was because he could see so many similarities between Dharan Greyt and himself.
Claudir reached the front door and opened it for him. Hand on his sword hilt-a comfort to him-Meris stepped out into the sun.
Or, at least, what should have been sun.
Meris blinked, but not from the dazzling light. Instead, the sun and clearing skies he had seen not long ago had hidden behind dark, foreboding clouds. Lightning split the black haze and thunder growled. From what curse had this storm come? Magic, mayhap. Meris detested magic.
Then he caught sight of a lone black figure staring at him from behind a high collar that was laced over his mouth and nose, concealing his face. The man stood in the main road before the Greyt family manor. Meris felt colder upon seeing the dark figure, but the tingle creeping down his spine only ignited a flare of anger. Rain poured down.
"You there," Meris called. In the near silence after the thunder's clap, it sounded like an ear-splitting shout.
If the man heard, he gave no sign. He merely held out a dark bundle and allowed it to fall from his hands onto the muddy ground.
Meris was already walking toward him, sword ready to be drawn.
The dark figure turned and walked away.
"Wait," Meris called. "Stand and face me, boy!"
The figure continued to walk away.
Rushing after him, Meris vaulted the plain wood fence, but the man was already half a block away. When he came down, landing smoothly on his feet, mud splattered up, staining his snowy cloak. He paid it no mind. Neither did he stoop to see the package the man had left.
"Coward!" he called as he ran.
Meris was almost on top of him when the silent figure ducked into an alleyway, one Meris knew ended in a wall. The white-clad scout jumped after him, but when he entered the darkened alley, there was nothing to be seen. The shadows of the two thatch-covered houses were deep, but they hid nothing but air. The man had vanished.
With a frustrated curse, Meris furrowed his brow and sniffed at the air. He didn't smell the usual scent of ozone or feel the pressure change that usually indicated magic had been spent, but the storm might be the reason. Meris cursed the strange weather but did not let it distract him from his search. Still, the falling water had done