this one, with angry clouds overhead, and a conversation not unlike the one she had just shared. It was the day that marked the dawn of her hatred of the humans.
It was the day her sister Wyel'thya had told her she was going to the fledgling town of Quaervarr on an overture of peace from the druids of the Moonwood. She taught them the ways of the druids, of coexisting with nature-the ways of peace. Then a lover had come, and a child: Lyetha Elfsdaughter.
The ghost druid, betrayed, had never forgiven Wyel'thya, refused even to see her when she sought out Gylther'yel's aid. Then Wyel'thya had grown sick, deathly ill…
It had been a human disease.
The sun elf had lost control of herself for the first time in her long life. Much of Quaervarr had burned that day, but the fledgling druids of Wyel'thya's order repelled Gylther'yel, the golden angel of the Dark Wood.
Alone, left for dead in the forest, she had learned of a new power, borne of her hatred of the humans and all life. She had become the Ghostly Lady.
Gylther'yel's eyes turned back to the shadows. A tear slid down her cheek.
'I loved my sister,' she said. 'But I never got her back, did I?'
Then the ghost druid let out a keening shriek that pierced both the Ethereal and Material and collapsed to her knees. The spirits remaining in the grove started and sped away as fast as they could manage from the enraged ghost druid. The force of that shriek caused all the songbirds and animals in the trees to shudder and die, their life- force wrenched from them.
All was silent except for Gylther'yel, who wept bitterly into the mud, screaming in rage and frustration.
Finally, Gylther'yel sniffed and wiped her tears away with the fringe of her cloak. There was one card left to play, and play it she would. Her face still red, she rose.
'Forgive me, Wyel'thya,' she said. 'Forgive me for prolonging his suffering. And forgive me now for what I must do to the last of our blood.'
Spreading her arms like wings, Gylther'yel leaped into the air and blinked out of the physical realms, turning into a ghostly raven. Riding the winds left spinning by the storm, she soared to a little grove near the edge of the forest, where she had left that last card slumbering.
Chapter 19
30 Tarsakh
The guards at Quaervarr's only gate had seen many strange comings and goings in the past few days, but none quite so strange as this.
The storm had passed but the sky was far from clear. A gray sheet of clouds still obscured the sky. The air hung thick and heavy, and a lingering tension caused more than a few watchmen to shift uneasily.
Both did a double take when a figure-a watchman by his garb-appeared some distance away, seemingly out of the very shadow of one of the great firs that flanked the road. In that silence, they should have heard him coming almost a mile distant. The man took a few zigzagging steps toward them, lurched, and fell.
They ran to him. Clad in the ring mail of a watchman, the man lay on his back in the mud. His face and tangled hair were plastered with mud and gore, obscuring his features except for a black leather eye patch that covered his right eye.
'Aye, Belk, it be one-eyed Tamel, eh?' said one guard, a hefty man named Mart.
'What's 'e doin' in one o' our tunics? In't 'e one of the rangers?' the pock-faced Belk replied. Mart shrugged, but his eyes flashed with worry. Unddreth would have both their commissions if he found out they were more loyal to Greyt than Quaervarr. Though Unddreth seemed to have disappeared, it was better not to take chances.
Belk checked the man for a pulse and breath, but neither were there to be found. His flesh felt like ice.
'Beshaba's bosom, he's dead! And 'e looks like he's been dead days!'
'What? What do we do?' asked Mart in a panic.
'Let's get 'im inside quick, afore someone sees 'im!' Belk hoisted the man's arms and Mart took his legs. Together, they carried the body inside and carted him over to an alley, where they dumped him.
'Where do we take 'im?' Belk's eyes darted this way and that, as though seeing spies hiding in every shadow. 'Not to them druids, nor to Greyt's manor.'
'We gotta think o' something-'
'But I don't know-'
'Silent as mist.'
Belk looked at Mart.
'Aye? What was that?'
'I didn't say nothing,' denied Mart.
' 'Anything.' You didn't say 'anything,' you halfwit. Gods, I'm soundin' like one o' the druids, wit' their grammar-ical lessons. An' you did say something, something about-'
'Still as death.'
'No, it wasn't nothing like that,' argued Belk. 'Something about mist-'
Mart opened his mouth to protest then yelped when something grabbed his ankle. Belk's eyes went wide. As one, they looked down, only to be yanked from their feet.
Their heads struck the hard cobblestones and unconsciousness took them.
Shaking off the last influence of his deathlike sleep, Walker wiped his face clean with the fat guard's cloak and stripped the Quaervarr tabard from his chest and the borrowed eye patch from his face. Dressed once again in his comfortable black, he sheathed one of the long swords at his belt. He would carry the other. Lastly, he opened his satchel and pulled out his thick black cape, which he draped around his shoulders. Walker stood, throwing his cloak wide and adjusting the high collar.
He looked over at the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn and nodded. The spirit did not respond, of course, but Walker thought he could feel grim pride resonating from Tarm.
After steadying himself, Walker padded over to the lip of the alley, bracing himself against a rough oak wall. Walker had not yet fully healed-not by his ring or by absorbing the energies of Shadow-but he had no time for weakness. When he reached the main street, he crouched and peered around the edge.
The street lay deserted, but Walker could hear shouts from a mass of people gathered in the main square of Quaervarr, farther up. Flitting between the shadows along the street was a simple matter and, indeed, hardly necessary-no eyes came upon him.
In the plaza, most of Quaervarr's population shouted for the Lord Singer. Guardsmen stood at the edges of the crowd, weapons drawn as though to ward off attackers, but their attention was just as fixed upon Greyt's door as were the eyes of the gathered hunters, trappers, traders, and families. Walker could see three dressed in the robes of druids wearing expressions of worry and undisguised anger. Walker noted the distinct absence of Captain Unddreth and Amra
Clearwater. He wondered what had become of them. Perhaps Greyt had removed them, for they were well- known as his enemies.
Then the doors to Greyt's manor opened and Walker's thoughts flew away in a wave of overwhelming hatred.
Resplendent in a full suit of golden mail, with a deep purple cape billowing out behind him and golden hair falling to his shoulders, Lord Singer Dharan Greyt stepped out beaming. His skin seemed to glow and the gray in his hair had disappeared. His golden yarting sang under his talented fingers, projecting chords of triumph and magic over the crowd.
Much of the crowd was stunned at his glorious appearance, and all-even the druids who looked at him with suspicion-fell silent.
'Welcome, friends!' shouted Greyt. His voice was loud and booming, and carried over the crowd to where Walker stood in the shadows. 'You have come to my door questioning and concerned, but you will leave with
