Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [3]
Lord Dharan Greyt had always preferred the spring.
Gold-haired, clad in a rich crimson doublet, and wrapped in a violet cloak with gold lining, the Lord Singer of the Silver Marches cut a dashing figure as he stepped onto the wooden stage in the square. A one-eyed wolf, his family seal, grinned from the velvet of his cloak. At once the crowd went silent, waiting to hear him speak, but he merely looked out at them, a sea of blank faces.
All of them looked expectant. All except one: the handsome, dusky face of Meris, framed with ebony curls and sitting atop his white-cloaked body. Meris looked on in bemused contempt. Greyt suppressed a smile. Much of the rabble was hopelessly bewitched at the sight of the Lord Singer, but not Meris. He was greater than any of them.
Greyt was pleased. He expected nothing less from his favorite-and only living-son.
Straight-faced, he tossed back his cloak and drew forth his gleaming golden rapier with a flourish. The crowd was stunned and drew back in awe.
"Well met, my friends!" His voice was rich and melodious, as though he sang a tune with every word. "Spring is coming-let's come to an accord!" Greyt spun his sword once with dazzling finesse and stabbed it into the planks at his feet where it stood, quivering. The audience gasped. "To live by art instead of the sword!"
Greyt smiled as he pulled his golden wood yarting from beneath his cloak. He strummed a perfect chord on the gilded instrument.
The crowd erupted into cheering as the Lord Singer began a raucous and comical story about a wandering lady, a dimwitted squire, and the dragon he had lost. The lewder adventures drew shocked gasps from the younger ladies, roaring laughter from the men, and giggles from more than a few older women. Mothers, stifling guffaws, remembered themselves and covered their children's ears.
Greyt saw two of his closest friends-Drex Redgill and Bilgren Bladefist-in the back of the crowd, roaring drunk, alternately shouting challenges to young rangers in the square and making lecherous comments to serving wenches. Just like in their adventuring days, Greyt mused.
The Lord Singer saw Bilgren shove one man down and steal his sweetheart-or strumpet, as the case may have been. Greyt decided it was time to change key.
The song took on an epic tone as he began a ballad of battles. Greyt sang of Quaervarr's victory against Fierce Eye's giants in the Year of Moonsfall, 1344: he sang of the glorious defense and of the heroic Raven Claw band-his own adventuring group.
Meanwhile, he plied his bardic magic through the music, creating curtains of flame and illusions of brave knights, fierce giants, and dancing dragons to amaze the crowd. Drex and Bilgren calmed and joined in the singing, lending their slurred voices to the cacophony. Even the sneering half-elf Torlic, the only other surviving member of the Raven Claw band, watched from the edge of the crowd. The people cheered, enraptured. Greyt almost enjoyed it.
He sang a third ballad, this one again about Quaervarr: the well-known legend of the Ghostly Lady who haunted the Dark Woods to the west. It had started one night over a century ago-a night of fire and death woven by a beautiful angel of fury. The druids of the Oak House-an order recently established at that time-had fought her and ended the threat with her death, but the town thrived on stories that called her alive and well, or perhaps undead and well, haunting the woods. More than a few children-and some who were older than children-shivered at Greyt's tale and smiled all the wider for it.
There was a moment of silence. The yarting fell still, and the people grew silent. After allowing the tension