this one last swing. Cracked beyond endurance, the stone split apart with a scream-a scream that matched Gylther'yel's own scream. Arya looked to see blood gushing from the torn thumb of the ghost druid's right hand.
Gylther'yel turned to Arya with murder in her eyes. With a snap of her fingers, Arya's bent sword suddenly glowed white hot and tumbled from her hand. Even as Arya cursed and drew her belt dagger to throw, Gylther'yel brought down the fires of nature upon the knight.
And Arya screamed as she had never screamed before.
I believe in you!
In the depths of a shaking Ethereal, Arya's face flashed across his vision, vision that was blurred between the two worlds. At once he saw her body writhing in agony-gripped by the hand of earth, slashed by animate thorn vines, and illumined in a column of fire. Her spirit was screaming one thing: his name. He could feel the pain and terror rippling through the shadowy half-world, but also love-love that burned more brightly than the flames that tore at it.
His first real choice-the choice that brought him from Gylther'yel's clutches-had been made in Arya's arms. Arya had become the source of his strength and resolve; in her arms, he knew a stronger power, a greater determination than anything rage or hatred could muster.
He would not give up. He would not yield to Gylther'yel's lies and deceit.
Then a memory, a memory not of love but of horrible pain, flashed across his mind. A memory long buried in his mind but uncovered in Gylther'yel's words, the walls chipped away by the chisel of Walker's love for Arya.
'Greyt could not choose until I sent him…' she had said.
Through newly opened ears, he heard again the ghost druid's subtle admission that she had met Greyt fifteen years previous.
Suddenly, spirits surrounded him, the spirits of his attackers, speaking again the words he remembered, the words by which he had condemned them. He did not hear them, though.
There was only one cold, familiar voice.
Whether you will or no.
Two spirits appeared over him, those of Lyetha and Tarm. They looked down at him sadly, but he could see the light of hope on their faces-tragic, resigned hope, but hope nonetheless.
And, suddenly, Walker knew what must be done.
Forgive me, Arya, he said to his beloved knight on the ethereal winds. I must pay for my sins. My vengeance must be complete. It has to end.
Walker? came her startled reply. He did not know how she, in the Material world, had even heard, nor how she replied. Then a swell of love, so tragic it tore his cold heart asunder, threatened to overwhelm Walker. He had to let it flow past him. Walker!
You are my perfect melody, he said to Arya, and I shall sing of you forever. The song of the Nightingale-the lay of the ghost she taught to love.
Walker, what are you doing? asked Arya. Then she felt his emotions resonating through the shadows and she knew. He felt her terror, and knew that she realized his desperate plan. Walker, no! Please! Don't-
But Walker did not reply. Instead, he tore himself out of the Ethereal. The shades vanished from around him as he emerged into the physical world of torment and agony. Outside the ghost world, he knew he could feel physical pain, and he wore no healing ring to save him after this. This was the end.
Black hides blood. Black shrouds pain.
Gylther'yel's fire was stripping the flesh from his bones, but slowly, agonizingly, so that he could feel every tiny bit of his death. He had to feel it in order for this to work, though-he had to feel enough pain to push him to the breaking point, then…
Perhaps she would not realize what she was doing until it was too late.
'Hurt me, false mother!' he called through the inferno. 'Punish me, burn me, attack me!'
Gylther'yel looked at him and laughed. The fire did not intensify.
'Your entire life has been a lie!' he shouted. 'The love you taught me to ignore, the good of humanity… I found it, but you never did. You cannot!'
She turned furious eyes upon him.
'What?' she snapped, her voice as thunder.
'You always tried… to be a mother to me… but you failed,' said Walker. His words were broken with gasps of agony, but he could not succumb. Not yet. Not while this final task had to be done. 'I watched my mother die… you could never… understand… love…'
Gylther'yel screamed with laughter.
'Then teach me, 'Son!' ' Throwing her hands up, she brought down a column of flame upon his head. 'Whether you will it or no!'
As the agony gripped Walker with a viselike hold, he felt cold, terrible power fill his body. Though she had spoken his birth name-Rhyn Greyt-she denied his true name, the name that would take away his powers. Some men are born to a name, some men are given a name, and some men name themselves.
Rhyn Thardeyn was one of the last.
In an instant, his mind flashed back fifteen years to that terrible night when the men had killed him. His eyes saw again that terrible scene as through a red lens, blurred by the blood that had burned like fire. He heard again the taunts that had brought his memory back.
Then he saw, in his mind, something he had never remembered until now.
He was lying on his back, choking but alive, and staring upward when he heard a soft voice, speaking to Greyt from the trees.
'I must have that boy,' said Gylther'yel. 'The agreement, Greyt.'
'Damned if you will have this boy!' Greyt shouted. 'I deny you!'
A rapier drove through Rhyn's throat, cutting off his breath.
'Let's hear you sing now,' Meris whispered.
Rhyn Thardeyn opened his mouth but only a bloody rattle emerged.
The ghost druid smiled. 'Whether you will it or no,' she said. Then she turned away.
Awake again, Walker turned burning eyes on Gylther'yel, eyes empty of anger, pain, rage, or love.
Eyes that knew only vengeance.
'I remember you,' he said simply. The shatterspike glowed white hot in his burning hands but he felt no pain. 'You were there. You let them kill me. You made them kill me.'
The ghostwalker vanished out of the column of fire. Back in the Ethereal, he ran through the flames, his cold anger ignoring the agony, toward the shadowy storm that was Gylther'yel, the only mother he had ever known.
Walker! came a despairing voice. No!
Farewell, Arya. A smile spread across the ghostwalker's face. Farewell, my love.
Then he burst through Gylther'yel's ghostly halo of flame and brought his shatterspike down and through the sun elf's spectral body. The ghost druid gave a scream that tore the veil between worlds and fire exploded forth.
Spectral hands spread to welcome him, those of Lyetha and Tarm, his true mother and father. Smiling, Rhyn reached out.
All went white.
Postlude
