Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [67]
Secure in his role, Greyt gave them one more smile, waved, and went back inside his manor to the cheers and shouts of devoted friends.
* * * * *
Meris was waiting for him inside the entry hall. "Overdone," said the wild scout.
"Perhaps," allowed the Lord Singer. "It matters little when dealing with the sort of fools who make up frontier towns such as Quaervarr." He beckoned Meris with a wave and began walking toward his bedroom. "Walker escaped?"
"Yes."
"This upsets my plans," said Greyt. "But not irreparably. The trap failed?"
"Walker is formidable, but we had him. He only escaped with help."
"Who?" Greyt asked, though he had already guessed the answer.
"My cousin and her paramours," Meris spat. "She burst in and rescued him. Then her wretched lads covered their escape."
Greyt sighed. "Ah, Niece, Niece, you disappoint me. So obvious, so unsubtle, so… like a knight." He paused at the door to his bedroom. "I have a task for you, boy."
"I can hunt them both down tonight," offered Meris in a harsh whisper. "I need only half a dozen men-"
"No. Another task." Meris furrowed his brows in confusion and Greyt suppressed a smile. "That whore Clearwater is sending one of her lapdogs to warn Stonar of all this. The last thing we need now is our beloved Speaker returning at the head of an Argent Legion. Everything would come undone. Send your rangers into the woods-"
"Consider it done," said Meris. "I'll take care of it personally."
As soon as he realized it was still open, Greyt closed his mouth and regarded his son. That had been too easy, Meris's agreement too fast. Greyt searched the young wild scout's features, but the dusky face was unreadable. Neither could the Lord Singer read Meris's body language-except for the single hand on the sword hilt that spoke volumes.
"Yes," Greyt said, very softly. "And I promise, when you return, Walker and Arya will be yours. Just… do not delay. Silverymoon isn't a day away." The rhyme held none of its luster, and was a death sentence coming from the Lord Singer's lips.
Meris smiled but did not speak. With a curt nod, he turned and padded away.
Greyt watched him go. So Arya's tale had been true: Silverymoon was searching for lost couriers, and Meris was involved somehow. The Lord Singer wondered how this could have escaped his notice. This was a surprise, and nothing pleased Dharan Greyt less than surprises when he was not the one behind the mystery.
Greyt might have asked aloud, but he knew Talthaliel was already weighing this, having read Greyt's thoughts faster than the Lord Singer could have articulated them.
With a derisive whistle, Greyt decided to let the diviner puzzle over this dilemma. He had more important things to do, the first of which was keeping an appointment with his bed.
Greyt opened the door and stopped short in surprise. The woman sitting on his bed was facing away from him, her features shrouded in darkness, but he would recognize that silhouette anywhere.
"I did not expect to see you here," he said coolly.
"I did not think you would," said Lyetha. "I have not been in this room for many winters."
She shifted. She wore nothing beneath the white silk robe wrapped around her delicate curves. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight that Greyt's breath caught. Though he had known her over thirty years, the half-elf did not seem to have aged more than a decade. She still possessed the same youthful vibrancy that had first attracted him.
"It was not always that way," said Greyt. He slid down onto the bed next to her. "There was a time when you called this room your own." He extended his arm around her, and Lyetha did not recoil from his touch. Rather, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I remember when first we-"
"So you will be a hero again," whispered Lyetha in a soft, hopeless voice.
Greyt blinked. The sweet honey of her voice was filled with bitterness. Lyetha spoke of great things for her husband, but the way she said it turned all the praise to worthless, crumbling ash.
"I have always been a hero," Greyt said with a little smile, an attempt