Erik DeBie: Ghostwalker

"Aught else?" Greyt prompted.

Meris nodded and shrugged noncommittally.

It was the only answer Greyt needed.

The Lord Singer clapped his hands and turned back to Tillee. "Well, since you seem so insistent, it might well be truth. We'll send you to the Oak House and set you before Amra Clearwater. Let her tell us if you speak true." With a smile, he took the crimson blanket back. "I'm sure, since you sound so passionate and honest, you must be telling the truth. Besides, a good maid such as yourself would not lie, eh? Meris will take you there."

The ranger couldn't hide his smirk.

"Oh, thank you, Lord Singer!" the half-elf woman replied with a wide smile. She reached for his legs to embrace him. Despite his half-hearted effort to dodge, she caught him. She kissed his gold ring, the one with his family seal. "You really are a hero!"

He put on a fake smile, rolled his eyes, and pulled his cape from her grasp. Then he started toward the door, rubbing at the gold wolf ring. On the way, he caught Meris by the arm and dipped his head toward his son's ear. "Do you want her?" he asked.

Meris's nose wrinkled.

Greyt smiled. He would have responded the same way.

"Bilgren will be disappointed, but he'll get over it," Greyt said.

Then, as he was leaving, he paused. "Oh, and see that you leave no stain," he said. "I've just had the carpet re-laid. It is red, but still… It is also new."

Shrugging, Meris turned away. His sword scraped out of its sheath.

As Greyt closed the doors behind him, he heard Tillee's surprised gasp. Meris hadn't allowed her to scream.

26 Tarsakh

An Greyt's waiting room, Arya was tapping her fingers on the oak table and chewing on the edge of her lip.

It was a spacious room, with elegant windows and real glass. There were three lavish couches, upholstered with varying colors of fur and leather, ranging from the tanned flesh of caribou to what the steward Claudir claimed was tundra yeti. Arya's nose always turned up at the thought of harvesting furs. Her distaste was not, however, shared by her two companions. On the middle couch, they lounged on feather pillows and shared laughs-Derst's witty snickers and Bars's rumbles-over something or other. Too nervous to join them, Arya lingered near the cold fireplace, running her fingers along the stems and petals of the flowers Greyt's servants had collected for display.

Winter lilies and frost roses stood in bright array among emerald stems and leaves, curled into bunches along a golden banister. The flowers might have been picked that morning; they were so soft and vibrant. The ones that gave the trick away, however, were the stunning fire-dragons-snapdragons so red the people of the north claimed they were slain dragons reborn. The burning petals sparkled with dew, but Arya knew they only bloomed in the warmth of Flamerule. There was no way Greyt could have had them gathered that morning.

"Admiring the blooms, Lady Sir Venkyr?" Derst asked. "Pretty this time of year, eh?"

Arya smiled wryly. "Oh, indeed, Sir Goldtook," she replied. "As you can see, they're quite lovely." She inhaled a fire-dragon deeply, wondering about the fragrance, but there was nothing. The flower was stale and had obviously been dead for some time. Magic.

Appearances, in Greyt's house, were everything.

The door clicked and three pairs of eyes turned as Greyt's steward Claudir entered. "The Lord Singer of the Silver Marches, Dharan Greyt," he said. The three knights started at the odd title, but quickly composed themselves.

At that announcement, Greyt swept into the room. Trailing his rich violet cape behind him and clad in his finest black doublet, the man was resplendent in his noble attire. His dark blond hair was swept back and his blue eyes sparkled. A rapier with a golden basket hilt hung from a beautifully embroidered and stitched belt around his hips. If the knights didn't know better, they would have thought him the lord of Quaervarr, if not the lord of Silverymoon itself. He was smiling as though it was habitual. He paused, ducked into a low bow, and folded his hands in front of him.

"Well met, Uncle," Arya said with a slight curtsy, even though she was wearing a man's leggings and not a skirt. Arya was not much for dresses.

"Ah, my beloved niece, what a pleasant surprise," Greyt said with a grin as he took Arya's fingers. He bent and kissed the young woman's hand with an exaggerated bow, then stepped back to examine her. He gazed at the star and nightingale design on her tunic, the arms of House Venkyr. "Nightingale of Everlund, you would teach nymphs beauty."

Arya blushed, though she could have sworn she had read that particular bit of poesy somewhere before. Ignoring Bars's and Derst's bemused looks, Arya forced a neutral smile. She knew this contrived manner-the style of court-and could play at it if necessary.

"Speak plainly, please, Uncle," Arya said. "I lack your training in such poetry."

Greyt bowed his head a little. "You have grown into quite the young woman, niece. When I last saw you-what was it, a dozen years ago? — you were only half as tall and not nearly as… full-bodied." His grin was waxy and his eyes glittered. He turned away, went to the side table, and poured two glasses of a sparkling red wine.

Arya felt her face growing warm-again-and could hear her companions' snickers from behind her. She would have shot a glance back at the two young knights, but it would only have made them laugh louder. "My thanks, Uncle," she said. "Time has been kind to you as well."

Greyt inclined his head.

Composing herself with a brief repetition of the knight's code, she met his gaze levelly. "Allow me to introduce my companions, Sir Bars Hartwine and Sir Derst Goldtook, of the Knights in Silver."

The Lord Singer bowed and proceeded to ignore them. The knights shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Greyt indicated the couch with one glass, but Arya made no move to sit. He shrugged indifferently.

"I must admit, your arrival comes as a bit of a surprise," he said as he handed the wine glass to Arya. She accepted it gracefully and inhaled the aroma but did not drink. Leaning against the sideboard, Greyt continued. "I had thought you at court in Everlund, waiting on your father, Lord Rom, and that you were to be schooled in letters, poetry, and the sorts of things that-that, well, noblewomen do. And yet here you are, clothed in an adventurer's garb and companioned by knights." He looked at the pendant of Silverymoon hanging over her blue tunic. His smile broadened. "I see you take after my sister."

"She is my step-mother, Uncle," Arya reminded him lightly. "You and I are not related by blood. She merely married my father."

"Of course." Greyt smiled and gave a little laugh. He rubbed the gold ring with a wolf's head around the fourth finger of his left hand-a nervous habit. The pause was an awkward one.

"You must be wondering why I have come," Arya prompted, raising the wine to her lips.

"Ah, and direct, I see," Greyt replied, driving into a new subject. "You do indeed show the Greyt spirit, though the Illuskan coloration doesn't fit us." He brushed her auburn hair with his fingers. "A product of that dull, pretty knight who stole my sister."

Arya didn't know how to reply.

"But please, speak. I am anxious to hear your tale." He finally sat, flinging his cape across the fur-covered couch. Then he raised the glass to his lips and smiled. "I do so love tales."

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but the doors slammed open and a white-garbed young man walked through the portal. A naked sword was in his hands.

Bars and Derst leaped to their feet, the roguish knight's hand going to a belt dagger, but Arya stopped them with a raised hand. The dusky-skinned man was also carrying a kerchief. He paused and his stance shifted to a defensive posture, from which he eyed the two men.