eagerness to be a hero, he forgot that a hero must sometimes give up his dreams in order to do what is right. For Dharan, self-sacrifice is simply not possible.'
Walker was impassive.
'I loved him once… before I loved Tarm… and then… I… you…' Then she trailed off, unable to speak.
The spirit of Tarm looked tragic at that moment, as though she had slapped him. He clearly understood what she was saying.
Walker did not.
'Why does that matter?' he demanded.
Lyetha looked back at him with bleary eyes and managed a little smile. 'I… I guess…' She looked down. 'I guess 'tis easier to destroy than to create.'
They were silent for a moment. Then Walker sniffed.
'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, it is.'
With his toe, he flipped the sword off the ground into his hand. 'Go home, Lyetha. I shall remember what you have said this day, and my vengeance will pass you by.'
Lyetha reached out to embrace Walker, but he stepped out of her reach.
'I am lost to you, Mother,' he said. 'I did not see the truth, and now it is too late. Forgive me for what I have done, and for what I must do.'
The spirit of Tarm Thardeyn looked at him and cast a wistful glance at Lyetha, who could neither see him nor feel his loving caress.
Walker left his mother weeping in the alley and stepped out into the street toward the house of Lord Singer Dharan Greyt.
Murderous eyes, a war cry, a sword, and a flail were there to greet him.
'You've come back… so soon,' said Greyt, startled but thinking fast.
'Surprised to see me, Father?' asked Meris, spinning the shatterspike so that it clicked against the fine oak of the desk. His hand axe lay imbedded in two volumes of Waterdhavian history that Greyt had left stacked there. ' 'Tis no matter. I think we both know why I am here.' Meris's voice was slurred, as though his tongue were swollen or he were in his cups.
Against his polished white leather, Meris's dusky features seemed especially exotic, and for a moment, Greyt had not recognized him as his son.
Coolly, the Lord Singer crossed to the sideboard and took two glasses, into which he poured the remainder of the elverquisst he carried.
'Talthaliel told me you would come,' Greyt said. 'That my son would come to kill me, but that he wouldn't defeat my mage.'
'Did he?' Meris asked. He hefted the ghostly shatterspike and his hand axe. 'Sorry, but he's indisposed at the moment. Outside. Fighting Rhyn-er, I mean Walker.'
Eyes widening, Greyt tipped over the glass in surprise. He barely managed to throw his aging body out of the way to dodge Meris's thrust.
'Traitor elf!' he shouted as he whipped his golden rapier out of its scabbard and fell into a fencing stance almost as though it were second nature. His old muscles protested, but he was glad-for the first time-that he had continued sparring practice.
Standing a few paces away, Meris laughed and waved the shatterspike mockingly.
'Wonderful scheme, father,' he said. 'You were to become the hero of Quaervarr-a fifth time over? Gods! How much do you have to do? Has any level of brainless worship ever been enough for you? Who are you trying to convince-them, or yourself?'
'Bastard!' Greyt shrieked. He lunged at Meris.
The dusky scout casually parried his sword aside. 'Indeed, but that's beside the point,' replied Meris. 'The point is, when I go outside next, they will all hear how I killed Walker, how I killed the renegade knights, and how I killed the 'mad Lord Singer.' I will be their hero, not you. You're just a murderer, and a mad one at that.'
'You treacherous little bastard,' spat Greyt.
'You keep calling me that. Sounds more like an insult to you than to me.' Then he laughed. 'Amazing how history repeats itself-this reminds me of fifteen years ago when you killed your own 'mad' father.'
'You knew about that-you were with me the night Rhyn Thardeyn died, the night we murdered your grandfather and the others!' protested Greyt. 'Rhyn-you killed him! You took the ring off, in your youthful ignorance-'
'No, Father,' said Meris. 'Purpose. I hated him and I wanted him dead. And I did it. Perhaps I didn't understand at the time, but I do now, and I don't regret it.'
Greyt was horrified. He remembered that night, when he had taken Rhyn into the forest to frighten him, to chase him away. To have Lyetha to himself, to remove any reminder of Tarm Thardeyn, the priest he had killed years before. Meris had removed the healing ring before Greyt's scarring blow, and Greyt's wolf's head ring had been lost in the following argument.
And now… now he knew it had been no accident. Meris had been murderous even then.
'Foul creature!' he shouted. 'How can Quaervarr accept you, once they know that you are just as great a monster as I?'
The Lord Singer thrust at his son again, but Meris was ready. He knocked the blow aside with his hand axe and lashed out with the shatterspike, tearing a neat red line down Greyt's left arm. The Lord Singer gasped and fell back, though he kept the golden rapier up.
'Correction, father,' Meris said with a grin. 'I am a greater monster than you will ever be. And, as for Quaervarr-well, who will believe you, a madman?'
'Spoiled brat, I am their hero!' Greyt asserted. 'They will believe me, and my magic will persuade them even if they do not!'
Meris shrugged. 'Then I guess I'll have to ensure that you don't live to persuade them.'
With that, the wild scout charged in, launching a reckless offensive with his two weapons whirling, and Greyt pumped his arms, desperately fending off the attacks.
Outside, in Quaervarr's main plaza, where the crowd had dispersed in terror at the battle unfolding, Walker struggled with his own attacker.
Attackers, actually, for there were two: the raging barbarian Bilgren, his gyrspike whirling like a zephyr of blade and flail, and a dark-robed mage floating far above, weaving threads of magic into deadly bolts of fire and lightning. Walker prayed Lyetha had fled, so at least he would have only his own safety to worry about.
It would be quite enough.
'Ye escaped me once, with the aid o' thy little fox,' spat Bilgren, his mouth foaming in his rage. 'Not again- this time, ye're mine. All mine!'
'Romantic,' mused Walker. He realized with a start that it was something Arya might have muttered in this situation. The thought brought a twinge of anger. He had to get to her!
Walker parried blows from the gyrspike, swatting away the flail like a ball and slapping the blade wide so that it would not find his flesh, all the while dodging bolts of power the mage rained down upon him.
Bellowing, Bilgren swept the flail at Walker's legs, but the ghostwalker leaped over the blow, kicked off Bilgren's chest and rolled away, just in time to evade a bolt of lightning that slammed into the earth between them. Momentarily stunned by the blast, Bilgren staggered back, howling like a wounded animal.
'Talthaliel, watch where ye be aiming, ye lout!' shouted the big man.
Walker seized the opportunity to hurl two of the daggers from his belt at the barbarian. Bilgren caught one with the shaft of his gyrspike, but the other buried itself to the hilt in his thick stomach. The hulking man took one look at the tiny fang in his flesh and roared, more in anger than in pain. He ignored the blood that began to leak down his rothe hide armor.
