Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [51]
Gylther'yel assumed her ghostly wildshape once more, this time taking the shape of a nimble, golden doe. Then she stared at the ghostwalker levelly with a gaze that told Walker, in no uncertain terms, that he would regret his decision.
Soon he was left alone with his thoughts, his doubts, and the spirits. Ghosts flitted about, most of them of creatures long passed and a few the mournful souls of the soldiers who had died that day. Walker could not see them-he had not tapped into his ghostsight, wanting to do this battle as a mortal man-but he could feel them. They begged for his reassurance, his guidance. It was something he could never give.
As always, the sadness came to him, intensified now that it seemed he had rejected the one being, his teacher, who could understand his power and his curse. This was the first time he had threatened Gylther'yel and it was the first time he had opposed her wishes directly.
He knew things could never be the same with her again.
Pulling his cloak tightly around himself, Walker began the long trek back to Gylther'yel's grove and imagined the reception he would find there.
* * * * *
The thing that displeased Greyt the most-and it was possibly the only thing that truly displeased him at the moment-was that he could not compose while inebriated, and he was definitely in his cups that evening. The three empty bottles of Tethyrian and Amnian wine surrounding him attested to that.
The loss of musical talent could be justified, though, for this was a time of celebration.
He had just received word that Unddreth had met with great unpleasantness in the Moonwood, and while the thickheaded captain continued to deny it, rumors were spreading through the town like wildfire that the mysterious Walker had killed half a dozen soldiers and wounded as many. Greyt suspected something more sinister was at work, for he knew what guarded the west Moonwood.
The common citizen, though, knew nothing of the Ghostly Lady; she was but a child's story. Walker, on the other hand, seemed real enough. With every retelling, his story became more extravagant, and now the man in black seemed to be guilty of at least two score murders and was thought by many wise citizens to have destroyed the Black Blood and perhaps Silverymoon single-handedly.
Greyt's mind was cloudy with drink, but he felt in his gut that this was exactly what he needed-an outside threat to distract the people and make them examine their security-one that was not the Black Blood, despite how useful the cult had been. After all, Jarthon and his beasts, before those damned adventurers had driven them out, could be dismissed easily as frenzied savages who picked victims at random.
But a murderer on the loose-a cold-blooded, methodical, unstoppable killer-during Stonar's absence would upset the balance, and Greyt could make it swing in his direction.
Who would the frightened townsfolk run to but the Lord Singer, an adventurer himself, with contacts to be called in and experience in dealing with monsters and killers? Talthaliel's warnings that Walker was a wildcard to be watched seemed irrelevant.
There was still the matter of the Venkyr girl, however, and that was what plagued Greyt's mind now. Talthaliel's warning that the girl was clever and insightful set off bells in Greyt's head. He had to keep Arya away from this Walker. Their meeting-as Talthaliel had warned-would bring only bad consequences.
Just as he was pondering this, there was a knock at his ballroom door and Claudir stepped inside to announce that "Lady Arya Venkyr and her companions" waited without.
Intrigued, fighting the muddiness in his head, he waved for the steward to show her in.
"Uncle, I must protest," said the knight as she stormed in. Her appearance was stunning in her silvery armor, aided in no small part by the flush of anger. The other Knights in Silver who were her companions walked in as well, clad in their armor and bearing their weapons. So she had decided she could not come alone, eh? Greyt frowned.
"I went to speak to Captain Unddreth about