Peletara recognized him.
"Lord..." she said. "Lord Meris?"
He smiled. Even as his sword scraped out of its scabbard, the attacker bent down and traced a finger down her cheek.
The touch of death.
* * * *
Walker stiffened, as though something had gouged him. Arya reached out, but he shook his head.
With a troubled look, Walker turned to her.
"What?"
"Sing for me," she repeated.
Walker hesitated. Then he shook his head. "My song was ended," he said. "Fifteen years ago."
When he was distracted, Arya kissed him. She pressed her lips against his cold mouth, kissing him gently at first, then in passion and hunger. She could feel the heat that lurked beneath his icy lips, felt it begging for release.
She pulled back, staring into his eyes, and placed her hand on his cheek. "I want to hear the song they tried to end."
Then she was away from him again. He had pushed her back. "I cannot," he said. His voice was sad. "Not now. Not ever."
"But Walker..." Arya said.
Then, as though helpless to reply, he began to sing. Voice broken, song discordant and ragged, still there flowed a certain beauty through its shape, in the rise and swell of his music. Arya heard, rather than saw, the man he might have been, a golden god who had once sung in these woods but now walked in darkness.
After a moment, she became aware there were words to his song, words that flowed and ebbed with a melodious disharmony that was inexplicably balanced. They were in Elvish, and she did not understand them on a conscious level; the words cut to her soul.
There was pain, hatred, and vengeance. Walker sang of his death, sending images into Arya's heart that sent chills through her body. Without realizing it, she reached out to take his hand, as though to comfort him.
He ripped his hand out of her grasp so quickly the silver ring came off in her hand, but he did not notice in the singing, and she did not notice in the listening.
She found herself wrapped in the melody of his voice. Torn and shattered, leaping between notes no bard would play together, and perfect. The haunting melody enfolded her like a cool, dark blanket, and she felt her senses floating free of her body.
Walker's voice trailed off, but Arya, lost in his art, hardly realized it. Her heart was throbbing and breaking all at once. It was simultaneously the most blissful romance she had ever heard and the saddest tragedy she could have imagined.
When she finally looked up, she perceived, through tear-blurred eyes, that he was staring at her.
"Is that not ugly?" he asked. He had misinterpreted her.
"Walker—" she started.
"I am lost to you, Arya," Walker said, interrupting her. "All that remains is my task, and when it is done...." He trailed off, and the silence was palpable.
Bitter emptiness welled within her. "Walker," she said. "That's not your name, is it? What is it, your name, so that I can—"
With a frustrated growl, Walker slammed his fist into the ground, and though she could hear bones crack, he did not seem to care. Then he coughed so violently Arya wanted to cover her ears. Blood came up—the legacy of ancient wounds. Arya touched his hand in concern, closing her fingers around his. If Walker noticed, he made no sign.
When he spoke, his voice was calm but sad. "I do not know," he said. "Where do these songs come from? I do not know. How do I remember them? I do not know. If I remembered my own name, would it still hold true? Would I still be... I…" The last words were quiet, helpless.
He seemed on the verge of opening to her, as though…
Then nothing. He fell silent again.
Arya felt frustration well within her, along with deep sympathy. How long had this tortured man existed in this state? He could not open himself, could not confront the demons of his past, the feelings of his present, or his fears of the future. Whenever he tried, whenever he came close, he would cough violently as though to tear himself in two. Sometime in his past, Walker had forgotten how to feel. He was a man without fear, hope, or love.
But no, that was not it.
Her heart denied that. It told her he couldn't open up, not because he had forgotten, but because he could not face what would come.
Trusting her feelings, Arya reached out and took his hand.
Walker pulled away.
"Walker," Arya said. She leaned in again, but he pushed her back, gentle but firm. He pulled his gloved hand from her grasp.
"Do not do that again," he rasped, menace—and pain—dripping from his broken voice.
* * * *
Somewhere in the trees above them, a pair of phantom lips smiled.
"Yes," said the feminine voice.
Having said that satisfied word, the face became that of thrush. The bird beat its wings once and was gone.
* * * *
Arya turned away, and he could see her shoulders shaking, whether because of fear or relief he did not know. There. He had done it. Walker had just reinforced everything his training had taught him. Everything Gylther'yel had hammered into him about being alone, everything he had learned about the dangers of bringing others into his violent life, everything he had thought in these last fifteen years was coming true once again.
He would not, could not share his bleak, bloody, and short existence with anyone. No friends. No lovers. No family.
He was the spirit of vengeance, meant to walk alone.
He thought he caught a glimpse of Tarm Thardeyn out of the corner of his eye, but the spirit was not there when he looked. A wave of sadness came over Walker, but he let it pass through him, leaving him empty.
Now that he had done it, how did he feel?
He should have felt nothing. All his experience told him he should feel nothing but ice inside, project nothing but cold outside, and take comfort in his retreat from the world of the living. The dead understood and never judged. The spirits that surrounded Walker would never turn away in fear.
But that was not the way he felt. Instead, he felt... he...
He did not know, and that was what frustrated him.
"You should go," he said, as much to stop his thoughts as to break the silence. "I am ..." Then nothing, not even the word he had meant to say, which was "sorry." He wanted to say more—about his fears, his quest, anything more—but the words would not come. He had forgotten how to speak them, he thought.
But all the while, he knew he had not.
Some tiny voice deep in his frozen heart, a voice he had kept hushed for so many years, was trying to tell him how. And he knew. He understood. He was just...
"Afraid," he breathed.
Arya had risen as though to leave, but she turned back. "What?" she asked, her voice a shade above a whisper.
Instantly, Walker was silent, but he had already said the word, and it had been enough.
* * * *
Arya saw then, as through a tiny crack in his stone will. She saw Walker with his defenses down, terrified, empty, hollow...
And alone.
"It is nothing," he said.
Arya heard the pain in his voice—not so much in his words, for they were few, but in how he spoke them. He was struggling with himself. Walker had been forced to face death, the hellish cry of vengeance, and fear of himself, and he had done it all alone.
Arya made a decision then, a decision that would steer the course of her life until her last breath. She gathered the courage to look into his blue eyes. She suddenly became aware of a small object in her hand—a silver ring. His one-eyed wolf ring. Arya gently took his left hand and began drawing off his glove.
* * * *
"What are you...?" asked Walker.
As she bared his flesh, though, his thoughts leaped to his abhorred power to sense spiritual resonance, insights that would steal images from her thoughts and cloud his vision. He did not want that emotional turmoil—he did not want to lose himself when Arya was there, her beautiful face before his.
&
nbsp; But she was touching his skin, and there was nothing. No resonance, no visions, no knowledge—only the warmth of her skin.
She pulled the glove entirely off, and with it went Walker's last line of defense, the barrier between him and the sword. Like the walls he had built around his heart, his gloves hid him behind a layer of black. And now she had stripped that defense away. She laced her fingers through his. So soft, so warm…
"Arya—"
She held up his left hand—the wrong hand, but he hardly noticed—and slipped the ring on to his fourth finger. She reached delicate fingers up to brush his cheek.
"Your song," she said, "was beautiful."
Some part of Walker—the fearful part—wanted to argue, scream, or turn away, but he could not. He merely sat, dumbfounded, as she caressed his cheek, then leaned her head against his bare chest.
Then it occurred to him. Though he had touched Arya's hands, kissed her lips, and hugged his arms around her waist, he had not felt any psychic resonance from her. No visions. No feelings. He simply felt what she felt. This unknown sensation would have had him collapse into tears just as soon as he'd have clasped the woman in his arms. It might have frightened him, this lack of resonance, as he had not imagined it possible, but he understood intuitively what it meant.
And that frightened him even as it set his body tingling.
"You cannot," he said. "Arya... I... I live for vengeance. It is my unfinished task. When this is over, I will have nothing else. I will die—whether in battle or in silence. There is nothing for you here; only darkness and a grave."
Arya gazed into his eyes, and he could see tears sliding down her cheeks. "I do not care," she said without trembling.
Walker was overcome with a new wave of feeling, which frightened even as it excited him. At first, he thought he had never felt the sensation before, but then he discovered that it was there, buried deep, beneath the ice and shrouded in the mists of his heart. It was warmth in his chest, a feeling of loving and being loved.
His eyes slid closed—eyes that were bleary from the moisture gathering there.
This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, pressing him down, he did not stop her.
Chapter 13
29 Tarsakh
Wandering child...
Miles south of Quaervarr, Meris froze where he walked, sliding the kerchief along his blade. He extended his senses into the surrounding forest. The words might have been a figment of his imagination. He could hear nothing but the chirping of birds, the swaying branches, and...
Where have you wandered, Wayfarer?
Meris started in terror. He heard nothing, but there were the words, spoken in a mocking female voice in his mind!
Feeling his flesh tingle, Meris let the kerchief flutter to the ground and drew his hand axe. He whirled around, searching every shadow and tree-top for the speaker.
"Who's there?" he shouted, brandishing his weapons. "Show yourself!"
Haunting laughter sounded in his head, so soft as to be barely present.
He sensed a presence behind him and whirled, letting fly his hand axe. The weapon cut into a fallen tree trunk.
A terrified squirrel, which had barely dodged the deadly missile, scampered out of sight.
Who do you fear, Meris Wayfarer, son of Greyt?
"What do you want from me?" Meris waved his sword in the air.
What do you want from me? came a reversal.
He could see no speaker, only the forbidding trees of the Dark Wood. The canopy seemed to have grown tighter, swallowing the sunlight overhead.
"Who are you?" Meris's voice was a shriek. "Who speaks?"
More soft laughter. You know me, Wayfarer. You have always known me.
Meris ran to the fallen trunk and recovered his axe. Without pausing to search the clearing again, he pumped his legs as fast as he could, running toward Quaervarr.
He hoped the whispers would not follow.
* * * *
The watchmen at the gates of Quaervarr were glad to see a spot of sunshine, particularly after the events of the last few days. So many folk were disappearing, victims of the Ghost Murderer, it seemed. Mostly heads of businesses, prominent leaders, and rich folk. It threw the town into chaos. This weather, however, seemed to carry hope. The watchmen relaxed and enjoyed the light and warmth of the coming spring.
Meris neglected his usual subtlety when he ran up to the gates. Though he had sheathed his weapons, the darkly clad figure running toward them jarred the guards, who crossed their spears to bar his path until they recognized the scout's face.
"My lord?" they asked as he shoved their weapons away and rushed into town.
Once he was inside, Meris calmed his breathing, but his heart still raced. He left the main street for an alley and shed his black clothes in favor of the white leathers he had placed in the alley beforehand. No one must see him in black—no one ever had. The watchmen were an exception he would have to take care of.
Clad in the fresh armor, he strode down the street to his father's manor.
Claudir tried to stop him at the door, but Meris shoved the thin servant away and stormed in. Without waiting for his name to be announced, he threw the doors to the ballroom open and approached the Lord Singer.
Greyt was dressed resplendently, as always, but his face was haggard and worn, as though he had slept little that night. The ballroom was as opulent as ever, but the statues and tapestries reflected Greyt—old and shabby. The Lord Singer had been musing about something when Meris came in, but he looked up immediately. His look was glowering, his eyes shot through with blood.
Never, in Meris's memory, had the old man looked so weak. A part of him wanted to ask what was wrong, perhaps in a show of familial friendship, but Meris despised his father in that moment, more than he ever had before. He held his tongue.
"To what do I owe the honor of this impertinence?" asked Greyt. His voice did not sound melodic at all. At his wave, Claudir, following Meris, left and shut the doors.
Meris trembled, but he pushed the memory of the ghostly whispers from his mind. "I come to report," he said. "The courier is dead, slain by a man in black—as is her horse, so even those cursed druids can't find out what happened. The woman was killed with a sword, as Walker uses."
"And if a priest thinks to conjure the dead?"
"The girl recognized me before she died, but I buried her head separately," replied Meris in distaste. "Let the corpse try speaking without a mouth."
"How about the others?" pressed Greyt.
Meris bristled. So his father had puzzled out his habit of waylaying the couriers. No matter. "A man in black," he said. "Unidentified. I—you are quite safe."
The Lord Singer sat back in his chair, weighing Meris. "Good," he said shortly.
Meris might have thanked Greyt. Then he realized it had not been a compliment—or even directed at him—and sneered instead.
"Now, I want you to find and kill Walker," said Greyt. "Bring me back his head, and I will be the hero of Quaervarr—their savior."
Meris had to work hard to keep from laughing. Some "hero." He could not even take care of his own murders.
How pathetic Greyt seemed to him then, how frail. If Meris had wanted to, he could have walked up to Greyt and run him through, or crushed the Lord Singer's skull in his hands. What wards could he possibly have? He was not even wearing his rapier, flimsy weapon that it was.
Greyt narrowed his eyes. "Try it," he said.
"Try what?" asked Meris. Had the Lord Singer heard his thoughts?
"You want to kill me, then do it," said Greyt, rising. When Meris's eyes widened, the Lord Singer laughed. "Oh, don't be so surprised. The hatred is written on your face. You are as easy to read as the simpletons who live in this town."
Bristling at the insult, Meris reached down and grasped the hilt of his long sword. He did not draw, though, for the tiny fear had returned; the fear that Greyt was hiding something, some defense that Meris could not perceive.
"Come on, draw," Greyt egged his son on. "You think me old, weak, frail... what was it? Pathetic. And that's what I am, a pathetic old man, unarmed." He spread his arms wide. "Draw, and run me through."
"What trickery is this?" Meris hissed.
Greyt ignored him. "Draw your sword, boy," he commanded. "Run me through. I have no defense." He stepped within Meris's sword reach. "Kill me. Or are you afraid?"
"Afraid?" asked Meris. "Afraid of a pathetic old man?"
"Afraid of a hero!" asked Greyt, his eyes shining. "Afraid of killing a hero, afraid of facing a town of vengeful woodsmen, women, and children?"
"I fear no..." Meris trailed off. The words would make no difference, for his father was mad. He knew it then, knew it beyond doubt. Instead, Meris set his jaw and said nothing, though he kept his hand on his sword.
"Then draw," Greyt said, his voice low and biting. "Attack."
Meris did nothing but fight to control his trembling hand.
"Attack, coward!" ordered Greyt. "You are my dog! I order you to attack!"
Meris stared at him. Greyt had never been this abusive, had never badgered him like this. He knew that Greyt was his father, his own flesh and blood, but... He did not know what to do.
"Attack!" shouted Greyt.
When Meris said nothing, the Lord Singer slapped him hard across the face. The scout looked back, his eyes furious, and Greyt laughed.
Meris felt his mouth drawing up into a sneer. The screaming creature before him was no longer a man to be respected, admired, or even feared—instead, he was merely a weak fool like the other villagers of Quaervarr. Only a tiny voice in the depths of Meris's heart protested that this man was his father.
"Attack, bastard!" Greyt screamed, spitting in Meris's face.
That one word—a title Meris had always worn without any show of emotion, a name that spoke of obdurate bitterness and a gulf between them that could not be crossed—cut him deeply, down to whatever he had left of a soul, and forever silenced that tiny voice. Here was the one man—the one being—he had ever felt any connection to, and to hear that damning word—
"Attack!"
The Fighters: Ghostwalker Page 17
