as it was, and when Meris had…
Greyt growled to no one in particular. Was there no one who shared his vision of heroism? Would he be doomed to a lonely existence as a hero forever?
Well, Meris wasn't a concern any longer. Greyt could always have another son. How many women of Quaervarr were fighting over him even now?
He took a swig of the elverquisst and the hearty wine banished the feeling of emptiness in his stomach.
'So be it, then!' he shouted to no one in particular. He rubbed his gold ring. 'If I must be a lone wolf, then so be it!'
The rangers outside his door cast quick glances as he came, then snapped back to attention. Any other day, their behavior might have struck Greyt as odd. At the moment though, still feeling enthusiasm pulse through his body, the Lord Singer thought nothing of it. He opened the door to his study, laughing at his own joke, and shuffled inside. Shutting the portal behind him, Greyt breathed a great sigh then turned toward his desk with a smile.
What he saw wiped the grin right off his face.
'Hail, Hero-Father.'
Walker spun, breaking the grip around his mouth, and held up the guard's sword to threaten his attacker. He opened his mouth but words would not come to his tongue. He faltered, drew his blade away, and took a step back.
His attacker-a golden-haired woman-stepped from the shadows. 'I know why you have come,' she said.
At first, Walker heard Gylther'yel in her voice, but this woman was taller and fuller-bodied than any elf, even though she was thin-gaunt almost. The years had done their work on her features, but Walker could see the beauty in her face.
Walker felt an overwhelming wave of emotion wash over him, a sensation of bittersweet love from the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn. Too stunned to address the spirit-and not about to turn away-he felt his fingers tingling on his sword hilt.
'Who are you?' Walker rasped. He felt oddly embarrassed by his broken voice.
'I am Lyetha Elfsdaughter, the wife of the Lord Singer, the last descendant of Wyel'thya, and the Daughter of the Sun,' Lyetha said. 'You are the one they call Walker. And you have come to murder my husband.' Her eyes were sad.
'What do you want?' asked the ghostwalker.
'I ask for mercy-for my lord.' Lyetha's face was smooth and her eyes were damp.
Walker bristled. 'Dharan Greyt is a monster.' His unshakable self-confidence was not there, though, and he wondered why this woman made him so uneasy. 'I must destroy him, for what he did to me…'
Moisture flared in Lyetha's eyes, and those eyes seemed to glaze over.
'I cannot stop you, so you must kill me as well,' Lyetha said, 'for I cannot live without him.' She pulled her dress up around her knees, knelt down, and bowed her head. She even shifted the gold mane off her pale neck.
Startled, Walker took a step back but kept a firm grip on his blade. 'What?'
A tear dripped down Lyetha's cheek.
'I have not wept-not like this-since my Tarm died,' she said softly, not wiping it away. 'I live only for Dharan, for he was the only one who comforted me, but…' Then she looked up at Walker with tearful eyes. 'But I have not wanted to live since my son died. Not truly.' Then she bowed her head.
Walker became very cold. He drew the blade back and up.
Another tear fell from Lyetha's eye.
'Goodbye, Rhyn, if you yet live.'
Chapter 20
30 Tarsakh
Walker's sword banged off a thick oak wall and clattered to the ground.
Lyetha looked up, startled, and Walker was on his knees before her. Having thrown his sword aside, he had pulled off his gloves and now clutched her face softly between his hands, though he knew without his power. Knew, but denied it, until..,
Shuddering at his cold touch, Lyetha stared into his bright sapphire eyes.
Her eyes.
'Rhyn?' she asked, almost in a whisper. 'Can-can it be?'
Lips trembling, unable to speak, Walker slowly nodded. He knew it was the truth.
Lyetha's arms slid around him and she held him fiercely.
'Oh, Rhyn!' she sobbed. 'I never dared hope you were alive!'
The ghostwalker's eyes were almost soft. 'Mother,' he whispered.
His rasping voice, however, jarred him back to reality. Walker pulled his arms from around his mother and tore himself free with a cry. He half-crawled, half-fell backward, slamming into the alley wall, but he hardly felt the impact. Uncalled emotions flowed up in an overwhelming torrent. He clutched his arms around his head in a vain attempt to keep them in.
'Is this the secret you've kept from me all these years, Father?' cried Walker, as though it were a curse. 'Is this what you could not tell me?'
As always, Tarm Thardeyn was silent. The spirit just stood there, watching, though when he looked upon Lyetha, his gaze was filled with love. Walker screamed soundlessly.
After a moment, a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
'What's wrong?' Lyetha asked.
He shrugged off her hand. Walker looked at her but found there was little anger in him. He turned his eyes to his bare hands, covered with scars and dirt as they were. They were the hands of a warrior, the hands of an avenger, the hands of a murderer.
'These hands are too bloody to touch yours,' Walker rasped.
'What are you talking about?' Lyetha asked. She moved around in front of him and gazed at him. 'We're together again. We can run from here, go to Silverymoon-beyond! We can leave here for-'
'You can suggest such a thing?' he asked. 'After all I have done, all I have become… All he did to me?'
'We can leave him behind. This is finished for us.'
'Not for me,' Walker said, shaking his head. 'Not after what he has done. Greyt made me who I am, and he is the last.' He stood and turned away. 'He will be the last.'
'No! You can't kill him!' Lyetha protested, clutching the fringe of his cloak.
'Why?' he snapped as he rounded on her. 'Why? He has taken everything from us, ruined our lives. Why cannot I kill him?'
'There is something you need to know about Dharan,' Lyetha said. Walker watched her levelly, even as she struggled to get the words out. 'You, ah… your-your ring.'
'My ring?' He held up the wolf's head ring.
'The lone wolf is… it's Dharan's family crest…'
'I know. He put it on me just before he killed me, so I would live through their blows,' said Walker. Slowly, purposefully, he wound strips of watchman tabard around his hands, so that he did not have to look at them any more. 'So I would be in pain to the last, until he removed it, and its protections with it. He lost it that night, and I found it. His old ring, from his adventuring days.' His gaze turned cold.
Lyetha opened her mouth to protest, but the words would not come.
'What is it?' Walker asked, anger in his voice.
'When Dharan was just a boy, he grew up on tales of heroes,' Lyetha said. 'He… he always wanted to become one himself, to… to impress me, when we were young… but he… he…' Her voice grew soft. 'In all of his
