Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [29]
The dinner was elegant, Greyt decided, though too simple for his liking. Roast lamb, imported from warmer climes, was a delicacy Greyt could afford and so feasted upon regularly. Despite having lived all his life in the North, the Lord Singer had never developed a taste for the hard rothe meat from the herds that sometimes wandered the plains to the east. Trays of rich mustards and sauces provided pools of myriad colors among the winter flowers spread across the table in crystalline vases.
His preference for decadent dishes, coupled with his obsession for the various fruits and vegetables arranged in sunbursts and crescents around the table caused many to call him a "man of weak stomach." Grey preferred to call himself a "creature of delicacy and culture."
To Greyt it hardly mattered; he was, after all, Quaervarr's hero.
Greyt was disappointed a certain half-elf woman was not there to sit with him, but he was not terribly troubled. He could appreciate silence once in a while, even in his line of work.
As though in response to his thoughts, a door swung open and Claudir stepped inside. "Lyetha Elfsdaughter, the Lady Greyt," he announced.
His forehead suddenly itching, Greyt thought it might serve him best to forbid her entrance. He was about to reply to his steward's announcement when Lyetha swept into the room, almost bowling over Claudir. Greyt had to remember to suck in his breath when he saw her, or he might have berated her then, and the illusion would be spoiled.
A cascade of glowing amber hair fell around Lyetha's shoulders and her eyes blazed with sapphire light. Her face, with its distinct gold tinge, hinted clearly at her sun elf heritage. Slim and perfectly rounded, she radiated beauty in her gown of gleaming black, even as the color made Greyt wince. The frown on her full lips drew her face down, exposing soft wrinkles that hinted at her age, but she was still stunning. Lyetha had aged much more gracefully than Greyt ever would, and while they were nearly the same age, he looked at least two decades her senior.
Greyt had once thought Lyetha an incarnation of Hanali Cenali herself and pursued her with single-minded determination.
Once.
"Ah, my matchless darling," he said grandly as she swept toward him. "Do you find this evening to your liking, Morning Star?" His tone was purposefully poetic.
Lyetha ignored the compliment. She stood a short distance from the table, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight onto her back foot. "Care to explain yourself, Dharan?" she asked, the sarcasm thick on her tongue. Even so, the tone of her voice was rich, with a hint of a melody begging for release.
"I beg your pardon?" Greyt asked. He swept his hand out, gesturing for her to sit, and sipped his wine. "Pray, try some of this vintage. Amnian, I believe-or so Claudir tells me. He's always the one who keeps track. I just tell him which wines I like and which I don't."
Lyetha sat but did not follow Greyt's advice about the wine. She served herself, taking some of the vegetables on the table. After she had filled the plate, she ignored her food. Her attention remained on the Lord Singer.
"You know exactly what I mean," she said. "A bard with your long years of training and experience doesn't falter on a simple lyric, particularly one in a song you wrote yourself and have sung for almost a decade and a half."
"Don't be ridiculous," Greyt said, only half paying attention. "I would never-"
"The song about the children?" Lyetha pressed. "The missed note?"
Greyt was about to dismiss whatever she'd been about to say, but he was knocked off his guard. Of course she would ask about that. After all, it did ring with some importance to her.
"Ah yes," he said. "A minor mishap. Must be getting on in years. Watch out, I might become Elminster before you know it."
"Pausing on Ghar-on that monster's name is a minor mishap?" Lyetha countered. She stumbled over the name of Greyt's father, Gharask. "I could feel a chill, and yet-"
A retort died on his lips and he looked her in the