Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [74]
"What do you want from me?" Meris waved his sword in the air.
What do you want from me? came a reversal.
He could see no speaker, only the forbidding trees of the Dark Wood. The canopy seemed to have grown tighter, swallowing the sunlight overhead.
"Who are you?" Meris's voice was a shriek. "Who speaks?"
More soft laughter. You know me, Wayfarer. You have always known me.
Meris ran to the fallen trunk and recovered his axe. Without pausing to search the clearing again, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, running toward Quaervarr.
He hoped the whispers would not follow.
* * * * *
The watchmen at the gates of Quaervarr were glad to see a spot of sunshine, particularly after the events of the last few days. So many folk were disappearing, victims of the Ghost Murderer, it seemed. Mostly heads of businesses, prominent leaders, and rich folk. It threw the town into chaos. This weather, however, seemed to carry hope. The watchmen relaxed and enjoyed the light and warmth of the coming spring.
Meris neglected his usual subtlety when he ran up to the gates. Though he had sheathed his weapons, the darkly clad figure running toward them jarred the guards, who crossed their spears to bar his path until they recognized the scout's face.
"My lord?" they asked as he shoved their weapons away and rushed into town.
Once he was inside, Meris calmed his breathing, but his heart still raced. He left the main street for an alley and shed his black clothes in favor of the white leathers he had placed in the alley beforehand. No one must see him in black-no one ever had. The watchmen were an exception he would have to take care of.
Clad in the fresh armor, he strode down the street to his father's manor.
Claudir tried to stop him at the door, but Meris shoved the thin servant away and stormed in. Without waiting for his name to be announced, he threw the doors to the ballroom open and approached the Lord Singer.
Greyt was dressed resplendently, as always, but his face was haggard and worn, as though he had slept little that night. The ballroom was as opulent as ever, but the statues and tapestries reflected Greyt-old and shabby. The Lord Singer had been musing about something when Meris came in, but he looked up immediately. His look was glowering, his eyes shot through with blood.
Never, in Meris's memory, had the old man looked so weak. A part of him wanted to ask what was wrong, perhaps in a show of familial friendship, but Meris despised his father in that moment, more than he ever had before. He held his tongue.
"To what do I owe the honor of this impertinence?" asked Greyt. His voice did not sound melodic at all. At his wave, Claudir, following Meris, left and shut the doors.
Meris trembled, but he pushed the memory of the ghostly whispers from his mind. "I come to report," he said. "The courier is dead, slain by a man in black-as is her horse, so even those cursed druids can't find out what happened. The woman was killed with a sword, as Walker uses."
"And if a priest thinks to conjure the dead?"
"The girl recognized me before she died, but I buried her head separately," replied Meris in distaste. "Let the corpse try speaking without a mouth."
"How about the others?" pressed Greyt.
Meris bristled. So his father had puzzled out his habit of waylaying the couriers. No matter. "A man in black," he said. "Unidentified. I-you are quite safe."
The Lord Singer sat back in his chair, weighing Meris. "Good," he said shortly.
Meris might have thanked Greyt. Then he realized it had not been a compliment-or even directed at him-and sneered instead.
"Now, I want you to find and kill Walker," said Greyt. "Bring me back his head, and I will be the hero of Quaervarr-their savior."
Meris had to work hard to keep from laughing. Some "hero." He could not even take care of his own murders.
How pathetic Greyt seemed to him then, how frail. If Meris had wanted to, he could have walked up to Greyt and run him through, or crushed the Lord Singer's skull in his hands. What wards could he possibly have? He was not even