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 wearing his rapier, flimsy weapon that it was.
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.
