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 at cheer. 'You should know that, beloved.' He had not even meant to say the last word, but he found, deep inside, that it was not a lie.
For the first time, Lyetha looked at him, and he saw her azure eyes gleaming into his own. She was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. Her ruby lips parted slightly and she smiled at him. She ran a silky hand down his cheek.
'It is not long until dawn,' the half-elf woman said. 'The moonshadows grow longest in this dark time.'
'Yes.' Greyt smiled. He remembered those words, the words she had spoken to him that first time they had awakened together.
He bent in and kissed her. After a long moment, she returned the kiss, releasing her robe and holding his face with both hands.
Later they lay in each other's arms in silence and watched the sunrise out Greyt's window, rising somewhere past the Moonwood.
'Love,' whispered Greyt.
Lyetha did not respond, but he could tell by her breathing she was listening.
'I know I am a hero in their eyes, the people of Quaervarr, but I care nothing for what they think.' His voice wavered, but he ignored his own misgivings. 'I only care what you think.'
Lyetha met his eyes. 'You have been very good to me, my love,' she said, touching his cheek.
For a moment, Greyt could see the old fire in her sapphire eyes, and his heart felt so light.
Then she sat up and pulled her robe around her shoulders. 'But you have never been a hero, and I fear you never will be,' she finished.
His eyes widened and softened. She could not have stung him more with a knife.
Then she stood and walked silently away, leaving the Lord Singer to greet the morning with damp eyes.
Chapter 12
29 Tarsakh
She woke from a dream where a hauntingly beautiful melody surrounded her, bathing her in its dark warmth, like a lover draped in a black cloak…
Awareness returned to Arya gently as she relaxed in the grove, bathing in the warm dawn sunlight that pierced the clouds overhead. The grass was softer than any bed she had ever known. The breeze was cool and soothing and, despite the winter, the air felt almost warm. She was dimly aware that her armor sat stacked a couple paces to her right. Clad in the light garments she wore beneath, she stretched languidly.
It was only when she rolled over onto her side that Arya remembered where she was and how she had come there. She saw that Walker lay limply on his back a short distance away. His cloak pooled around him like blood and the black of his heavy collar made the exposed half of his face seem a skull.
'Torm's shield,' Arya breathed. She pushed herself to her knees and crawled over to Walker. Her limbs were surprisingly sore, and she took quite some time to make it those few steps.
'Walker?' she asked. She unlaced his collar so that he could breathe and saw his face for the first time. His handsome elf-touched features were pale and clammy, and his limbs were stiff. She slapped his cheeks and listened at his lips, but there was no breath. Neither could she feel his heart beating within his chest. 'Walker!'
Arya tore open the leaf-shaped clasp of his cloak and pulled the dark leather apart. He wore a much-patched cuirass of boiled leather under the cloak and she immediately unlaced the clasp at his shoulder. Her dexterous fingers, used to working with armor ties, had it free in moments, and she ripped it off to give him space to breathe. She was almost surprised to find that his face was not scarred.
Walker's chest, muscular and pale, was another matter. Upon his skin lay a network of crisscrossing scars from countless wounds, some minor, some serious. Standing out against his bone-white skin, four wounds in particular caught her eye. Two seemed half-healed: a shallow cut on his chest where his ribs had been crushed and
