Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [75]
Greyt narrowed his eyes. "Try it," he said.
"Try what?" asked Meris. Had the Lord Singer heard his thoughts?
"You want to kill me, then do it," said Greyt, rising. When Meris's eyes widened, the Lord Singer laughed. "Oh, don't be so surprised. The hatred is written on your face. You are as easy to read as the simpletons who live in this town."
Bristling at the insult, Meris reached down and grasped the hilt of his long sword. He did not draw, though, for the tiny fear had returned; the fear that Greyt was hiding something, some defense that Meris could not perceive.
"Come on, draw," Greyt egged his son on. "You think me old, weak, frail… what was it? Pathetic. And that's what I am, a pathetic old man, unarmed." He spread his arms wide. "Draw, and run me through."
"What trickery is this?" Meris hissed.
Greyt ignored him. "Draw your sword, boy," he commanded. "Run me through. I have no defense." He stepped within Meris's sword reach. "Kill me. Or are you afraid?"
"Afraid?" asked Meris. "Afraid of a pathetic old man?"
"Afraid of a hero!" asked Greyt, his eyes shining. "Afraid of killing a hero, afraid of facing a town of vengeful woodsmen, women, and children?"
"I fear no…" Meris trailed off. The words would make no difference, for his father was mad. He knew it then, knew it beyond doubt. Instead, Meris set his jaw and said nothing, though he kept his hand on his sword.
"Then draw," Greyt said, his voice low and biting. "Attack."
Meris did nothing but fight to control his trembling hand.
"Attack, coward!" ordered Greyt. "You are my dog! I order you to attack!"
Meris stared at him. Greyt had never been this abusive, had never badgered him like this. He knew that Greyt was his father, his own flesh and blood, but… He did not know what to do.
"Attack!" shouted Greyt.
When Meris said nothing, the Lord Singer slapped him hard across the face. The scout looked back, his eyes furious, and Greyt laughed.
Meris felt his mouth drawing up into a sneer. The screaming creature before him was no longer a man to be respected, admired, or even feared-instead, he was merely a weak fool like the other villagers of Quaervarr. Only a tiny voice in the depths of Meris's heart protested that this man was his father.
"Attack, bastard!" Greyt screamed, spitting in Meris's face.
That one word-a title Meris had always worn without any show of emotion, a name that spoke of obdurate bitterness and a gulf between them that could not be crossed-cut him deeply, down to whatever he had left of a soul, and forever silenced that tiny voice. Here was the one man-the one being-he had ever felt any connection to, and to hear that damning word-
"Attack!"
Meris almost did. But even as he sent the command to his arm to draw the sword, he felt that haunting fear in the back of his mind and all his anger become terror. He flinched away, averting his eyes, unwilling to let the Lord Singer see him afraid.
Greyt chuckled. "As I thought," he said, turning. "You disgust me, coward." He walked back to his throne and sat, draping his gold-laced cape across the arm.
Meris paused at the door and looked back. His gaze held nothing but hatred. Then Meris turned on his heel and walked out without a backward glance.
* * * * *
The Lord Singer waited a moment after the doors shut behind Meris then he raised his hand in a particular signal. Talthaliel stepped out of the air at Greyt's shoulder.
"That was unwise," observed the elf seer. "What if he had done it?"
"You were there, weren't you?" the Lord Singer asked irritably. "I was never in any danger. Besides, your vision said he won't defeat you."
"What if I err?"
"Have you ever erred?"
Talthaliel nodded, conceding the point. Greyt's face was calm but his eyes were furious.
"Still, I advise caution," the elf continued. "Words spoken in haste and without calculation lead to mistakes. The Spirit and the Nightingale are no threat. But send the Wayfarer after them and-"
"Silence," snapped the Lord Singer without looking at Talthaliel.
"But-"
The man swung