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 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.
Meanwhile, Talthaliel completed another spell and sent down a volley of magical bolts. Rolling, Walker dodged to the side, but the projectiles veered even as they were about to meet the ground and struck him instead, slamming into him with incredible force. Walker gritted his teeth but kept moving.
Bilgren was back, running at Walker with the gyrspike spinning over his head. The ghostwalker ran as well, toward a bakery at the edge of the plaza, keeping the distance equal between himself and Bilgren. As he ran, he tossed two daggers up at the wizard, but Talthaliel waved them aside like irritating gnats.
Walker did not have to look to know that Bilgren was almost upon him. Running full out toward the wall, Walker leaped, kicked off the log wall at chest height, and flew backward. Bilgren's flail exploded into the wall, sending a shower of wood chips flying, just missing Walker's toes. The ghostwalker flipped over the barbarian's head, landed behind him, and slashed Bilgren across the back.
The cut might have been deeper but for the thick rothe hide. The guard's sword was too dull to penetrate fully, but it was enough to drive the barbarian deeper into his berserker frenzy.
The gyrspike came around in a withering slash, as though it possessed a mind of its own. Walker ducked the high flail and parried the sword blade, but the force of Bilgren's swing spun him around. Disoriented for a moment, he managed to duck the flail coming from behind him, and threw himself into a tumble to avoid a burning ray, which cut a precise line along the ground where his head had been a breath before.
He turned back to Bilgren and had to twist to the left as the gyrspike sword swept up. The flail followed it, and Walker twisted to the right to avoid it. Plying his skill with the curious weapon, Bilgren ducked forward and brought the gyrspike spinning over his shoulders. Walker ducked to avoid being beheaded, and parried the flail as it swept lower. The chain wrapped around his sword, and Bilgren howled in joy, ripping it from Walker's hand. The blade skittered among a pile of crates.
Walker did not, however, stand shocked as the barbarian disarmed him. Slipping a dagger into his hand, he thrust with all his strength, stabbing the tiny blade deep into Bilgren's thigh. The barbarian roared in pain and kicked Walker's midsection, sending him tumbling away. His flying body splintered the crates and he slammed against the store wall, only to slump down.
By coincidence, he landed near his fallen sword, but Walker did not pause to thank the gods. He snapped mental commands at his aching body, forcing it to move after such a hit. Groaning, it did. He rose, wincing, scooped up the blade, and forced his legs to run from the rampaging barbarian, whose smash destroyed another crate.
Walker paid little attention to Bilgren as he continued to leap and dodge blasts, his cape slashed and cut by magic strikes, but he knew he could not keep it up forever. Every now and then he had to turn and parry, riposte, and flee again. If his two opponents kept pressing, not allowing Walker to land a solid blow, it was only a matter of....
The flail of Bilgren's gyrspike slammed into Walker's shoulder as he turned, sending him flying like a petulantly hurled doll.
The ghostwalker sailed through the air to crash into the statue of dancing nymphs that stood in the center of Quaervarr's plaza fountain. He slumped down into the water with a splash and fought against the spinning haze coming over his vision. Walker felt the water around him grow leaden and sluggish, spurred by Talthaliel's magic to freeze and trap him, even as he lay dazed within the pool.
"I'll grind thy bones an' tear thy flesh with me teeth!" Bilgren roared.
A spiked flail blotted out the sun as it swung up over his head.

* * * * *

Greyt spun right as the shatterspike hacked down, splintering a bookshelf and sending tomes sliding down onto him. He parried Meris's seeking axe on the other side and lashed out with his fist, catching the wild scout in the chest. Meris staggered back, but was quick to knock aside Greyt's riposte.
Backpedaling around the desk, Greyt warded off Meris's attacks with the golden blade. The Lord Singer was the greater swordsman, but Greyt was twice his son's age. How long would it be before Greyt tired and Meris's steel found his flesh?
The hand axe shot in again, and Greyt caught and pulled it wide. Too late, as the axe hooked and held his rapier blade down on the table, he saw the feint for what it was. The shatterspike came slashing in from the other side, and Greyt struggled to put a book in its path. The tome exploded as the steel struck it, sending illustrated pages floating everywhere.
"One of Volo's guides," cursed Greyt. He threw a second book in Meris's face, thwarting the next attack. "Not much more than pictures, but still worth coin—you'll pay for that!"
"I don't think I'll be interested—" said Meris as the sword flashed out again only for Greyt to swat it aside, "—in replacing the library. I was never much of a reader, after all."
Greyt scowled as he pressed the advantage back against Meris. Seizing a daggerlike letter opener he had left idle on the desk, he stabbed out with lightning quickness over the next parry, tearing open Meris's forearm. The youth cursed and slashed the shatterspike between them. Greyt blinked as he watched his favorite letter opener fall in two.
"Typical," said Greyt.
He lunged in, but Meris was ready. The scout sidestepped at the last instant, letting the rapier cut along between his arm and torso. Then Meris hooked the hand axe around Greyt's leg and yanked the Lord Singer from his feet, following the attack with a thrust, meaning to end the fight.
Greyt, though, was prepared. A blade sprouted from the bracer adorning his right arm, and he knocked the shatterspike aside with a scrape. Sparks flew, and he plunged the blade up into Meris's belly. The wild scout cursed and clutched at himself, bent over in pain. The hand axe fell to the ground and the shatterspike dipped. The Lord Singer swatted a blow across Meris's chin, sending the scout staggering back.
Then the Lord Singer stood, limping slightly from his bruised legs and backside. When Meris made no move to strike, Greyt straightened his collar and cuffs, holding the golden rapier between his legs. Supporting himself on the sword, Meris coughed and gagged. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth. Greyt smiled and walked toward him, stretching his arms and holding the rapier horizontally behind his head.
"Well, my boy," Greyt said. "It's been a good couple two and a half decades. I always admired your knack for promoting yourself higher in my esteem—and your dashing looks." He held up the golden rapier and inspected the tip. Giving it a snap, the metal vibrated back and forth. "I always saw such potential in you, but I see I was doomed to disappointment."
Meris moaned, his tongue still thick. Greyt tapped Meris on the cheek with the rapier.
"What a shame—I see so much of that Amnian strumpet in you, too. Poor girl, killed by beasts in the woods. An 'accident.' " Something dawned on him and Greyt smiled. "Ah yes, thank you for reminding me—I had almost forgotten her fate."
Meris's only reply was to stifle a cough. Blood ran through his fingers.
Greyt grimaced. Meris was bleeding all over the carpet, creating stains that would take tendays to get out. No sense making Claudir do extra work.
He drew the rapier back.

* * * * *

I'll grind his bones an' tear his flesh with me teeth!
The words cut to Walker soul and, once there, made it hard and cold as ice. Screaming power filled his body, imbuing him with fifteen years of hatred and pain.
Walker leaped, stepped on the dagger in Bilgren's thigh, kicked off the one in his stomach, and flew over the barbarian's head, turning a forward somersault but flying backward, as though borne aloft on the wind of ghosts.
Barely nicking his trailing cloak, the flail came down and splashed into the water. There it stuck, much to Bilgren's surprise. The big man roared and strained, but he could not pull out the flail—the water had turned to ice around the spiked ball, thanks to Talthaliel's magic and Walker's timing.
Bilgren looked at the gyrspike in shock, then up at Walker, perched atop the fountain, his cloak billowing around him in the wind.
"Ye little rat, I'll be killin' ye!" slobbered the barbarian.
"And I'll be remembering you," said Walker, feeling at his chest. There was steel in his voice, and resolve shone so coldly from his eyes that Bilgren shivered despite himself.
As Bilgren strained to wrench the gyrspike free, Walker pounced, head over heels, his cloak flying. The chain on the flail snapped, Bilgren lurched forward, reversed, and brought the sword down as the ghostwalker landed behind him.
Walker parried the blow and threw Bilgren back as though the barbarian possessed all the strength of a child. Walker strolled a little ways away and beckoned the barbarian to attack. Bilgren slashed again, but again Walker parried, pushing the blade up and over, creating an opening for him to stick a third dagger in the barbarian's torso.
Bilgren blinked, his berserk fury shaken, then roared all the louder. With both hands on the gyrspike's handle, he slashed the blade at Walker as though it were a two-handed sword, but the ghostwalker dodged or parried each attack, slashing Bilgren slightly here and there, wearing him down. As the barbarian lost more and more blood, his fury increased to greater and greater heights. Regardless, though, of how much strength Bilgren gained from pumping adrenaline, Walker always slipped, snakelike, in and out of his reach, knocking the broken gyrspike aside with no more than a scratch on his cloak to show for it.
Finally, as Bilgren foamed and raved beyond the realm of sanity, Walker staggered back over a rock, bending down. The barbarian roared, thinking his triumph coming, and hammered his sword down, once, twice, then up on Walker's blade. The final blow tore the sword from Walker's hand and sent it flying away, and the ghostwalker spun to the right with the force.
Bilgren lifted his blade high, salivating at the thought of the death to come...
Then he blinked down at the long sword jammed through his ribs. Facing away, Walker had drawn his second sword from under his cloak during the turn, and jabbed it backward. Bilgren had never had a chance to parry.
The barbarian tried to bring the gyrspike down anyway, but his limbs would not obey his mind's commands. With agonizing slowness, he sank, limp, to the ground.
"Rest, peaceful as the grass in the meadow, my murderer," Walker whispered over his shoulder as he drew the sword out from between the barbarian's ribs. He recovered his throwing knives, wiped them on Bilgren's hide armor, and slid them into their sheathes.
Only one murderer left—one last haunting face that chilled him at night, one last sword to face, one last heart to still.
Then a sphere of cold energy crackled around him, and Walker froze.
The black-cloaked Talthaliel descended before Walker's eyes and smiled at him. Memories of pain and hatred fled from the ghostwalker, replaced by an oath for being distracted, and he realized that the one who killed him did not have to be one of his hated enemies.
"We meet, Spirit of Vengeance," said the moon elf. "For the first—and last—time."

CHAPTER 21

30 Tarsakh

Walker hacked his borrowed long sword into the bubble of force that contained him—a slash that would have split Talthaliel's head—but the barrier held firm. The throwing knife he had palmed fell, bouncing off the crackling sphere and sliding down to Walker's feet as though down the inside of a bowl.
In the face of this black-cloaked mage, Walker's supernatural determination vanished and he felt his strength and endurance fleeing. This was not one of his enemies, and that left him at a severe disadvantage. He chopped and slashed at the bubble again and again, but the sword rebounded from the force each time and vibrated in his hand enough to numb his entire arm. He saw the spirit of Tarm outside the bubble, but he knew calling to the spirit would do no good.
"Do not trouble yourself, Rhyn Thardeyn," came a voice from outside the bubble. "My magic is quite impenetrable."
The ghostwalker lowered the battered sword, and stared into Talthaliel's eyes.
"Interesting," the seer said, as though he had just observed something and was probing to see if Walker had as well. "Ah, well. It is not relevant." The diviner shrugged. He continued, putting aside whatever he had found interesting. "I regret interfering with your quest, Spirit of Vengeance. You have fought valiantly, as befits your training and skill, but your fight against the Lord Singer is over."
"Your master deserves death," Walker said. "Release me."
"Please; the Lord Singer is not my master." The tiniest flash of irritation crossed his face, but Talthaliel's words remained even and solid. Walker felt a tiny chill—he had rarely met one who could suppress his emotions so forcefully. "Regardless, you are right. But, for the moment, I do his bidding, and that bidding means your defeat."
"Then you have me," said Walker. "My quest is at an end." He lowered his head. "Kill me then—if you serve such a villain."
Talthaliel didn't flinch.
"Actually, I have a different plan for you."
Walker met the elf's gaze, his eyes confused.
Talthaliel shrugged. "All is occurring as I have foreseen. I have but to borrow a few moments of your evanescent time, then we will escape the Lord Singer's clutches together, though we shall never meet again in this world."
Walker furrowed his brow, but accepted without fully understanding. He felt, rather than saw, that the diviner meant him no harm—even encouraged his quest.
Hope flickered, but not at the thought he might defeat Greyt. Rather, this meant he might see Arya again—
Sitting, Walker folded his legs beneath him and closed his eyes.
"In the next moments, would you like me to tell you of your past life? What I have seen and you cannot remember?" asked Talthaliel. "This may be your only chance."
After a long moment, Walker shook his head. "Rhyn Thardeyn died fifteen years ago," he said. "Whatever you would tell me of the past would mean nothing to me now."
Talthaliel nodded.
"One thing only," he said.
Walker inclined his head to hear.
"Your voice was beautiful," the seer said. "For that of a human."
Walker almost smiled.

* * * * *

Greyt thrust at his son, but Meris stood with a flourish, brought the shatterspike from right to left, and cut the golden blade neatly in two.
Greyt watched, stunned, as Meris continued into a spin and brought the blade snaking around, only to plunge the point between the Lord Singer's ribs.
When Greyt looked at his son in shock, the wild scout spat out a chicken heart and a small flow of blood trickled down his chin. That was why his voice had seemed odd. Greyt's bracer knife had merely pierced flesh—no vital organs.
"I have learned many habits from you," said Meris. "Gloating is not one of them."
Fighting the agony, Greyt tried to stab at Meris with the blade in his gauntlet, but the scout slapped it aside with his axe. Then he twisted the sword, wrenching a gasp from the Lord Singer. The shatterspike burst from Greyt's back.
Greyt slumped to his knees, the blade through his body, and fiery pain spread through him. Words came from his lips, along with a trickle of blood.
"Meris, please," he croaked. "Lyetha... tell her I... I am sorry. I killed Tarm and little Rhyn... all those years ago. I alone! Tell her—I'm sorry."
Meris laughed at him.
"Lies to the last, eh, Father?" he asked. "I suppose it's close enough to true—true enough to keep me Quaervarr's hero." He smiled.
Greyt choked. Then he tried to speak again. "Talthaliel... you lied to me... you said you would fight... and defeat... my son... you lied..." With one shaking hand, he clutched the amber amulet that hung around his throat.
Then a boot fell upon his hand and Meris held him down.
The dusky youth grinned hideously. It was time for the final act of revenge.
"No, no he didn't, Father," he laughed. "He kept his promise. He has fought and defeated your son." Then he pushed with his foot, pulling the sword out, and the Lord Singer fell over.
Awash in a sea of pain, Greyt's face was wracked with both agony and confusion. Then, understanding came upon him, and his eyes softened.
"Lyetha... why didn't... didn't you tell me?" He gasped one last time. "Beloved ... forgive me ... for ... what I did not see..."
As the room faded to black, he imagined that he saw a laughing face before his eyes. It was a young Rhyn—his Rhyn—and his dazzling blue eyes, so like those of his beautiful Lyetha, gleamed in the lamplight.
He heard Rhyn running toward him, but from so far away. He would never arrive in time, Greyt knew. Rhyn and Lyetha had never been his, and he had hurt them so much, he was almost glad they would never be his now.
"We will meet again," he whispered, almost fondly. "In a world free... of hate and pain."
For the first and last time in his life, Greyt felt regret.
Then he felt nothing at all.

* * * * *

Talthaliel's mouth curled up at the edges. "Ah," was all he said. Then he vanished.
As he went, the shimmering sphere around Walker disappeared. Tarm, his father, was at his side, silent as always, urging him to stand.
And stand Walker did.
Walker ran for Greyt's manor. Lightning crashed overhead, threatening fierce rain as before, but nothing came down.
In the courtyard, the cherry trees—imported from far south—were just beginning to blossom, showing white and pink all around him. The cobblestone path running from the gate to the front door seemed impossibly long and Walker ran for all he was worth, his cape billowing behind him black against a sea of beauty.
Once through the front portal he slowed, watching every shadow for hidden attackers. He stalked through halls he did not know but remembered, somehow, as though he had walked them before—a memory washed away with his own blood that night fifteen years ago.
After his meeting with Lyetha, he found his memories creeping back, as though his shattered mind had pulled itself back together. Now he regretted turning her away, refusing to hear what she might tell him. His anger had blinded him, and now he wondered.
There were, after all, the mysterious memories of Greyt's manor that crept into his mind.
There was something eerily familiar about this building he had avoided studiously for the last fifteen years, lest his thirst for revenge get the better of him. That wall hanging there, that end table... The layout of the corridors, the design of the carpet... Walker could have sworn he could say where each and every door led, as though...
Even as he ran through the halls of his greatest enemy, Walker felt the cruel sensation of coming home.
"Empty as the darkness," he said under his breath, washing his mind of the memories. With the words, Walker pushed the painful, bittersweet sensation out of his mind, much as one would ignore a moment of deja vu. It was difficult, but he did it.
Then he heard cruel laughter from ahead and knew his destination: Greyt's study.

* * * * *

After running a hand through his black curls, Meris took his time wiping the blade with a kerchief from his pocket. Then he slid the shatterspike back into its scabbard and dropped the bloody cloth on his father's corpse. Absently picking at the blood spatters on his white leather armor, he paused to consider the fallen man. Greyt's face knew an almost peaceful expression, but there was sadness there also—a duality of emotion.
By contrast, Meris felt nothing.
That only made him smile.
His smile faded as the lithe Talthaliel stepped out of the air next to Greyt's body. Meris dropped his hands to his weapons.
The black-robed diviner ignored him entirely. Talthaliel knelt over the Lord Singer's body.
"I am to assume that Walker has been dealt with, then?" snapped Meris. "Did you kill the wretch? Where is Bilgren?"
"Yes, no, and dead," Talthaliel replied absently.
"What? Make sense, elf!" shouted Meris. "You were my father's slave, and he's dead, so you are mine now! Speak!"
Talthaliel looked at him with an expression Meris might have called amusement. He pulled an amber amulet from Greyt's dead hand and admired it.
"I serve no man," said the seer, "unless he holds this."
Meris looked at the amber without comprehension. Then he thought he saw a tiny gleam. "And what is that, your life-force? Your soul, or whatever you rat-faced elves have instead?"
"My daughter," said Talthaliel. He stood, and Meris watched as the amulet vanished into his robes. "But to answer your question, the Spirit of Vengeance has been defeated, once, but I have not slain him. He comes for you even now, and I do not have to see the future to know the violence he will bring."
"You fish-skinned, tree-kissing, elf bastard," growled Meris. "You get back there and—"
Talthaliel vanished as though he had never been.
Meris's frown deepened. Walker? Coming here?
Then it seemed obvious. The fool was trying to rescue Arya. Meris could ambush Walker and rid himself of the ghost at last—the shatterspike should do the trick.
First things first, though.
"Guard!" he called.
The door opened and one of the Greyt family rangers looked in. From his face, he did not find the carnage surprising,
"Too many liabilities," Meris said. "See that that wench Venkyr and the others have accidents in their cells. Immediately. When they are dead, post six men there. I want anyone who comes looking for them killed just as quickly, no matter who it is." The man nodded, then Meris continued. "And gather all the other rangers in the courtyard. I am coming soon."
"As you command, Lord Greyt-Wayfarer," the scout said. Then he disappeared out the door. Out in the hallway, Meris could hear voices as the two guards left.
"Lord Greyt-Wayfarer," murmured the scout. He enjoyed the sound of that.
After a moment, Meris bent over Greyt's body and seized the left hand. The gold wolf's head ring—the Greyt family crest—sparkled from the fourth finger. Meris wrenched it free, let Greyt's arm fall with a satisfying thump, and slid it on. It was too big.
"Once, I would have given anything to have your name," said Meris. He cradled his father's head in his hands. "I would have done anything to be worthy—anything to make you love me."
Then he dropped the head and rose, drawing away from the corpse. When he had gained his feet again, he slipped the ring off and admired it.
"It seems, however, that all I had to do for your name," said Meris, "was kill you."
He turned and started for the door.
But it was only to stop. He had noticed something new about the ring—something he had not seen before. Meris squinted to see. There was tiny lettering on the inside, elegant letters scripted in Elvish.
" 'It is easier to destroy than to create,'" he read aloud. He touched his stubbly chin as though in thought. "Stupid sentiment. Why create when others will do it for you?"
With a derisive laugh that echoed through the halls, Meris walked away from the corpse of his father, toward the door. As he opened the door, he slipped the ring on. Then he stepped out.
Lancing from the shadows, a blade bit through the white leather and into his stomach.

* * * * *

In the darkness of her prison cell, Arya could see a light approaching down the dungeon corridor, and a feeling of foreboding hit her such as she had never known before. So the great and mighty Lord Greyt had finally ordered her murdered. She would almost welcome death to free her of the pain of watching Walker die, of sending her dearest friends to their deaths, and of knowing that such a twisted lunatic as the Lord Singer was soon to be the most vaunted hero in the land.
Almost.
The knightly oaths that bound her, however, would not allow Arya to give up. Even if it was hopeless—even if everything else was gone—at least she could try.
She swore. This perverted peace, even if Greyt brought it about, would inevitably fail. The Lord Singer was no friend of Alustriel or the Silver Marches. The rebellion of Quaervarr would bring war—innocents would suffer and die for nothing, all so his mad heroism could hold true, a version of heroism he himself admitted to be false!
Burning with resolve, Arya strained at her bonds, her mind racing to formulate an escape plan. She tried to call for Bars and Derst, but the two slept soundly across the way, and her gag allowed only muffled grunts. Arya knew she was alone. Perhaps, if the guards were to come close, she could trip one and get her manacles around a throat…
But then she heard startled gasps from down the hall and the light vanished. Straining her eyes, Arya looked out but could see only darkness. Everything was silent and absolutely still. She could not be sure why, but she felt that a battle was going on, albeit a short one, though she could not hear the screams of either men or steel.
"Illynthas, shara'tem," came a whisper, and a light the size of a torch flame gleamed into existence inside her cell, a man's length from her.
It was an eerie, blue-green light that shone from a crystal high overhead. Arya looked up at it, then allowed her eyes to slide down, along a long staff of black wood, down to a thin hand that held it aloft. That hand extended from black robes that swathed a gaunt figure, a figure with glowing green eyes that seemed to bore into Arya's very soul.
The dark figure made a little gesture, but it was not an attack. Her bonds crumbled and fell away, passing into nothingness before they touched the floor. Arya blinked in disbelief.
"I offer freedom, Nightingale," said the mage. "And a warning: you are his only hope."
Arya's brow furrowed. "What? What do you mean? Who are you?" she asked.
"Someone who is doing what he should have done long ago," the mage replied. He extended his hand as though to help her up.
Still wary, Arya took that hand and, with the mage's help, got to her feet.
"What—" she started, but he was gone. Where her hand had held his, there was only a sword: her sword.
The knight looked around in wonder, but the mage had vanished as quickly as he had come, and there was no sign of his passing, except for the open cell door.
And that terrible omen: "You are his only hope." Heart pounding, sword in hand, Arya rushed out to release her companions.

* * * * *

In another corridor, not so far away, Meris's eyes slid from the dagger stabbing into his belly to the hands holding it. Then they traveled up the slim arms to his attacker's face to see furious sapphire eyes glaring at him with all the fury and hatred of the Nine Hells.
But they were not the eyes of Walker.
Angry tears streaming down her cheeks, Lyetha pushed with all her strength, driving the dagger through Meris's white leather armor and into the tough flesh beneath. She had stabbed near the spot Greyt's knife had found, but her blade followed an angle that cut deep into his bowels.
Their gazes locked for a moment, and the two shared a terrible understanding. Meris saw in Lyetha's beautiful eyes the final cruelty, the last crime that could be committed against her.
He saw the death of her love.
Never had Meris seen something that stunned him—or frightened him—as much as the fury in those eyes.
"For my husband," she said, steel on her tongue. "And for my son."
Meris blinked in reply.
Only when the darkness down the hall swirled and Walker materialized did Meris awaken and realize where he was and what had happened. With a flourish, he dropped his hand to the shatterspike's hilt.
"No!" shouted Walker, leaping forward.
It was too late, though, for Meris drew the blade out and across Lyetha's chest, sending blood sailing. Slowly, as though time itself stood still, the beautiful half-elf fell back into Walker's arms. The ghostwalker, panic and wrenching pain on his face, gazed into her eyes.
Meris, who had never seen Walker express emotion, blinked in stunned silence at the depth of the ghostwalker's mourning, and it sent a pang through his heart. He did not even think of attacking, though Walker was defenseless.
Lyetha looked up at Walker as though she did not recognize him, for a long, agonizing breath. Then her brows rose and a soft smile creased her face where only a pained grimace had been before. She gripped his hand with renewed strength, as though finally understanding a secret only the two of them knew. Held in Walker's arms, Lyetha drifted into death as Meris watched. At last, her eyes shifted past Walker's shoulder, and her lips moved.
"Well met again, Tarm," she said.
Then Lyetha died, a peaceful smile on her face.
Though Meris knew he should have attacked, should have sent his blade screaming for Walker's head in the man's moment of vulnerability, he could not. Some part of him caught the sight of something greater than himself—for the first time in his life—and it stayed his hand. Or perhaps it was his fear of the unknown. He did not understand—indeed, he could not begin to fathom—the emotional depth of the scene before him, and confusion ran through him and with it, terror.
Meris knew then, for the first time, the full measure of his foe, and he was terrified.

* * * * *

Even as he watched her spirit fade away, embracing that of Tarm Thardeyn, Walker gently laid his dead mother on the soft carpet and rose to face Meris, who still stood, apparently dumbfounded. Reaching down to his belt, Walker slowly drew out the guardsman's sword and pointed it across the short distance that separated him from Meris. The wild scout responded by raising his own weapon—Walker's shatterspike—and pointing it at the ghostwalker. The points of the blades almost touched.
Meris calmly pulled the knife out of his belly, grimacing as blood leaked out. Not taking his eyes from the ghostwalker, Meris dropped a hand to his belt, drew out a steel-encased potion, and quaffed it.
Walker watched as the blood flowing down the white leather slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely. His eyes darted into the study, and he saw Greyt's corpse. Somehow, even knowing that his vengeance was done did not calm the rage that boiled within his heart.
"This will be our final duel," Walker assured him. "You will pay for all you have done."
"I'm sure I will," Meris replied. "We've looked forward to this duel—you and I both." He rolled the sword over in the air, and its mithral surface glinted almost gold in the torchlight. "But I have the advantage, my friend."
In response, Walker held up his bandaged left hand, upon the fourth finger of which gleamed his silver wolf ring. Its single sapphire eye sparkled.
Meris shrugged, conceding the point.
"I'll just have to make sure I cut your hand off before I kill you this time," he mocked.
Now it was Walker's turn to shrug, but he did not move a muscle. His focus remained upon Meris, this man who had taken all Walker valued in life—things he had never known, and things he had thought lost before but had only truly gone now.
Such was his focus upon Meris that Walker was completely surprised when the door behind him shook under a mighty blow and muffled shouts penetrated the wood. He lunged, startled, but Meris batted his sword out of the way and leaped to the side.
The scout slashed out with a counter—a blow Walker dodged—and his wince of pain told Walker that the healing potion had not taken full effect yet. Walker took full advantage, slamming his sword into the shatterspike with a ringing blow. The long sword snapped against the shatterspike's edge, sheering off with a scream, but the damage had been done. With a curse, Meris let the mithral blade fall from his shaking fingers. The scout dived for it, but Walker flung the broken blade at him, and it sank into the carpet a pace from Meris's hand. Scrambling away from the weapons, Meris fled down the hallway, shouting for the guards as he went.
Walker slipped a dagger out into his hand and pulled back, but another blow on the door jarred his focus and the blade ended up in a wall a foot from Meris's fleeing head. Before the ghostwalker could draw another knife, the scout vanished around a corner toward the door to Greyt's manor.
Stifling a curse, Walker turned back to the vibrating door. The sounds of fierce fighting came from behind the locked portal, deep within the manor. A blunt object pounded upon the locked portal, and a long crack had appeared through the door. Taking up the shatterspike, Walker readied his lunge.
The door splintered, cracked, and flew off its hinges. Walker leaped out...
And stopped. His mouth dropped open and his sword point fell with it.
"I told you I could have picked the...." Derst was saying. Then he saw the ghostwalker. "Oh."
"Walker!" shouted Arya as she threw herself into his arms.
The ghostwalker was dumbfounded and his mind blanked for the next few moments. All he knew was that he was holding Arya and kissing her and, somehow, that was all that mattered.
Bars and Derst tried to fill the silence with chat.
"You know, Bars," said Derst, who hovered at the paladin's side, picking at his light tunic. "I'll be we could have found and donned our armor in the time it takes the two of them to say 'well met.'"
"Speak for yourself, Sir Goldtook," Bars replied. "You're the one who wears hunting leathers. I'm the one with the metal plates. Perhaps if you were my acting squire—"
"Forget it!" spat Derst. "You remember the first and last time I helped you put on your armor. Never again!"
" 'Never again?' Why so?"
"You almost crushed me when you needed a chair!" argued Derst.
"Squires often do much in the line of duty," shrugged Bars.
"I suppose sponge bathes, for example?"
"Only if you're a lass in mail—er, sorry Arya," Bars mumbled, his face turning bright red.
But the lady knight had not even noticed. Instead, she was holding Walker as though he might slip away at any moment.
"Ahem," Derst said, clearing his throat. "We're still here."
Walker and Arya, remembering themselves at last, pulled apart and turned. Though she had moved to the side, Arya still held his hand tightly, a warm touch that threatened to swallow Walker's focus.
The sounds of battle were still coming from beneath the manor. Bars and Derst had freed the other prisoners, who even now fought Greyt family rangers underground.
The three knights were covered with sweat and grime, clad in simple tunics and leggings rather than armor, and speckled here and there with blood—none of it apparently theirs. Their borrowed and improvised weapons (Derst's being a dagger, leather thong, and flask) were in sorry need of repair. All three seemed tired, weak, and totally unprepared for a fight except for the grim expressions they wore—looks that would cause the most hardened warrior to wince.
In perfect shape to wade into battle.
Walker nodded. "Well met," he said.
"Well met indeed," said Bars, extending his hand. "Arya's told us much about you. Well, not really that much... Well, aye, nothing. Um ... Well met." He trailed off and left his arm out for Walker to take.
Walker looked down at the extended arm and took it, to his great surprise.
Derst shook Walker hand. "I thought you'd be taller," he mumbled.
"I'm glad you got to meet," said Arya. "Especially since we're probably all going to meet Kelemvor in his underworld soon."
Walker needed no words to explain what they were about to do. He merely pointed.
"Bah!" exclaimed Derst. "You're always the pessimist, Arya."
"Aye, how many rangers can Meris have?" rumbled Bars. "A dozen? Two? Babe's play!"
"Easier than poking a chest full of goblins with a rapier," agreed Derst. "And besides—are they the legendary Knights in Silver? No. We are." He paused. "The legendary."
"Right," agreed Bars. "The Knights in Silver have never been defeated on the field of battle, and for good reason. Each of us is worth twenty of them!"
Arya, none-too-confident, looked at Walker for support, but the ghostwalker only smiled. She rolled her eyes.
"Men," she said.
"Aye," agreed Derst. Then, after a pause, he looked at Walker. "So—what's our plan?"
Walker turned and looked down the darkened hallway. He bent and slowly retrieved the discarded shatterspike sword.
"The front entrance?" Bars said, bemused. "Smells like an ambush."
"Bah! Meris would never expect us to be so stupid as to go out the front!" put in Derst with a laugh.
Then, when no one laughed along with him, his face grew serious once more.
"We're not, are we?" he asked, looking to each one for a reply.
None were forthcoming.
The ghostwalker peered at each of the knights. Then, without a word, he began walking resolutely down the hallway.
A smile lit on Bars's face.
"I like that plan!" he said. He hurried behind Walker.
Derst and Arya looked at each other, both equally stumped.
"Well, I suppose there's always my foolproof backup plan," said Derst. Arya arched an eyebrow.
"Proof against you, you mean?" Arya asked.
"You know me," Derst said with a shrug. He indicated the hallway with an open hand, and followed Arya when she ran after Walker.
When they arrived at the closed double doors, Walker held up a hand to stop them. He turned to address the three knights, who shared his determination. They drew steel.
"We do not know how many rangers await," said Walker. "I will go first."
"Suit yourself," Derst whistled. He hid behind a small table. "I'm comfortable, being alive and everything."
Bars nodded, pressing himself into the corner between the door and the wall.
Arya was not as yielding. She stood next to Walker, stubbornly clinging to his arm. When he looked over at her, her eyes were firm. "I'm coming with you," she said.
"This is the only way," Walker replied calmly but firmly.
"But, Walker, I have to tell you—"
His steely gaze cut her off and told her Walker would brook no argument.
Biting her lip, Arya took Walker's hand and squeezed it.
"Be wary," she said.
Walker nodded, squeezing her hand back to show he understood. Then Arya took up her place opposite Bars.
The ghostwalker closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. His focus returned, dampening the hot rage to a cool fury, shuffling it behind icy walls of control. Deep in his dark resolve once more, Walker opened his eyes, prepared.
Sheathing the shatterspike, Walker stepped to the doors, pulled them open, and walked out, arms wide open...
Into a hail of arrows.

CHAPTER 22

30 Tarsakh

Arrows from two dozen bows shot for him, arrows seeking to turn Walker into a human forest. The ambushing rangers were fully confident the battle was over before it had begun, for there was no way Walker could dodge or deflect so many arrows. The arrows shot right through him and slammed into the open doors, carpeted floor, and walls inside Greyt's manor, and more than a few bristled from the end table behind which Derst hid. Arya stifled a scream, covering her mouth. Bars and Derst looked at one another, shocked.
Walker just shook his head. It was all just as he had expected.
As the rangers, standing in a rough line in the middle of the plaza, looked down at their bows as though the weapons had betrayed them somehow, Walker raised his head and continued to stride forward. As he came, they realized they could see through his body; he was translucent, like a ghost.
More than a few of the twenty-four rangers gasped in terror, seeing the vengeful spirit of folk legend, and their limbs shook. The others, old and hardened veterans all, gazed at Walker in doubt and disbelief.
The two dozen men stood in front of the Whistling Stag, which rested across the way from Greyt's manor. Walker nodded. That must have been where Meris had fled.
"I am the Spirit of Vengeance," said Walker. His matter-of-fact words were soft, but they projected throughout the square loudly enough to reach all their ears. "I am the son of the Ghostly Lady of the Dark Woods, who brought the fires of heaven upon Quaervarr a century past. I was born and live in darkness, I breathe retribution, and I sleep to the screams of the damned. I fear no living thing, man or woman."
He paused, waiting while all that sank into his foes, but he need not have bothered. The rangers were trembling.
"I have slain your champions, and one alone awaits me," he continued. "My fight is with Meris Wayfarer, not with you. I offer you this one chance to throw down your weapons and to quit Quaervarr and the Moonwood forever."
Many of the guardsmen looked hesitant and afraid, but the reminder of Meris, their new lord, seemed to snap them out of it. Not that they knew loyalty, but as much as they feared the black specter before them, they feared the cruelty of Meris Wayfarer more. After all, one man could not defeat two dozen men, no matter his power. No ranger threw down his arms—indeed, many fitted more arrows to the string or drew swords.
"Then it seems I have no choice," said Walker, slowly drawing the shatterspike and continuing to walk toward them, "but to kill you all."
Half the rangers replied by aiming for Walker once more, and half tightened their grip on their weapons.
The ghostwalker made no sign of changing his calm walk until the first ranger, two short swords in his hands, lunged at him, screaming the name of the late Lord Singer.
Walker whirled, his blade out and dancing in the breeze. It cleaved one sword in two then snapped against the man's arm, sending him away screaming. A second ranger thrust a long sword at Walker from the other side, a blow that was deflected with perfect timing. The ghostwalker brought the sword up high, then threw the ranger off and continued walking, as though the man had never attacked. This ranger looked at his sword, saw that it was still whole, and swung at Walker's back. At the same moment, the dozen rangers with bows drawn fired upon the ghostwalker.
Unfortunately for the rangers flanking Walker, the arrows passed through the ghostwalker's head and chest as through mist and found resting spots in their bodies.
Screaming, the rangers tumbled down, even as Walker broke into a run toward the bowmen, who now scrambled to set arrows to bowstrings. As he went, he leaped bodily through a ranger who chopped two axes down through nothing and ended up on the ground, confused.
"He's an illusion!" shouted one of the rangers. "He's not even really—"
Then Walker brought his blade down into the man's mocking smile and ended his words.
Even as the rangers milled around in confusion and terror, Walker flew into a dance of death, his sword weaving back and forth, deflecting and shattering weapons even as arrows and swords passed through him. Though his body had no substance, his shatterspike—shimmering and almost translucent—still cut with just as much deadliness as it always had. Only his blade could bridge the gap between worlds and inflict pain in either.
Ironically, Walker carried the only weapon in the plaza that could touch him as a ghost.
Rarely did the shatterspike cleave flesh, though—most of the wounds that set rangers grunting, cursing, or falling were the result of the rangers' own weapons. Arrows flew through the battle without guidance, sailing through Walker's ghostly form to find ranger flesh instead.
Walker brought the shatterspike whirling in a glittering semicircle, shearing two raised blades in half and cutting a bowstring neatly on the back swing. Before the bowman could even drop his ruined weapon, Walker slashed him across the face and sent him down into the mud. It was only his second kill.
As though at random, Walker danced through the crowd, leaping around and through rangers, his shatterspike flashing, dropping weapons and men. He cut bowstrings, cleaved apart bows, and sliced quivers in two.
After a few moments, when the rangers were largely panicked, mostly disarmed, and completely disorganized, Walker smiled. "Go forth," he whispered on the wind, even as he sheathed his blade.
With that, he turned and ran toward the Whistling Stag. Many turned to give chase, hefting what weapons they could—belt daggers, hatchets, and the like—but then they heard new shouts.
"Forth the Nightingale!" came a mighty cry, shared by three throats, from behind them.
Most of the rangers turned, just in time to see three Knights in Silver, stripped to gray tunics and breeches, charge into the fray, weapons hungry for Greyt ranger blood. And the rangers had no bows or swords with which to cut them down.
Meanwhile, Walker sprang toward the Stag and vanished through the closed door, passing through the wood like a ghost.

* * * * *

The three Knights in Silver swept upon the confused rangers like a trio of giants, hacking and crushing left and right. Four rangers went down in the initial rush—Bars having taken down two himself—and the knights' courage did much to shake the rangers' crumbling resolve.
In the first confused moments of battle, Derst disarmed two men of their backup weapons and was dancing around a third, his improvised chain-dagger creating havoc for the ranger as he tried to cleave the wiry knight in two with a mighty war axe. An overhead chop was sidestepped, a withering cross ducked, and a reversal hit nothing but air as Derst rolled and stuck the dagger in the man's side. The man yelped and staggered forward, but the dagger was firmly lodged between ribs and brigandine plating. The ranger turned, but his motion only pulled Derst to the side—in time to dodge the falling axe.
Meanwhile, Bars worked furiously to hold off four rangers, his mismatched maces dancing and flashing like lightning. Though he could not launch a counter, the huge paladin put up a stunning defense, where he picked off every thrust, slash, and jab his opponents launched. Every time, they recoiled from the attack shaking their sword arms, which rung with the force of Bars's parries. Growling, Bars kept his duel at a standstill.
Fighting three men, Arya, not as nimble or as strong as her respective companions, more than made up for it in ferocity and cunning. She parried aside one ranger and immediately shield rushed the second, catching him off guard. She discarded her shield, which she had only held, not strapped on, and he had to fumble it out of the way with a clumsy downward cross of his two short swords.
The Nightingale shield fell to the dust, but Arya followed through and slammed her left fist then her left elbow into his face. The man staggered and collapsed backward, and Arya brought her sword back around just in time to parry the attack of a third ranger. She locked blades with him, then hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him staggering into the man she had left behind.
With a shout to the Lord Singer, the man on the ground slashed her across the front of the shin with his blade, but it was a weak blow, driven mostly by panic and not by skill.
Arya gritted her teeth against the pain and brought her sword plunging down into his chest. The man screamed and lay still.
"No mercy!" she shouted, slashing back around to deflect another seeking sword. The feral rage in her scream sent two rangers staggering back, doubtful looks on their faces.
By this time, two other rangers had closed on Derst's duel and were slashing and thrusting, but they only nearly hit the axe-wielder. The roguish knight kept dodging their blows, running in two low circles around the ranger with the axe, weaving the lanyard of his makeshift chain-dagger as he went. Finally, with the man fully wrapped, Derst slid past one of the swordsmen, put both hands on the thick lanyard, and yanked for all he was worth. The lanyard pulled tight around the man's legs, ruining his balance, and one ranger staggered into the other, sending both down in a jumble of limbs.
"Hail, lass!" shouted Derst as he leaped over another thrust, freed his lanyard, and kicked out, catching the ranger in the face.
" 'Arya,' Derst!" the lady knight snapped back. She parried a slash and punched the man in the face as though with a shield. Her fist had much less effect, but it was enough to send him reeling back. "It's Arya! You want to be 'lad?'"
"Oh, never that!" replied Derst. "Sorry! I was going to ask—" he parried a seeking blade with his dagger, hooked his lanyard around the weapon, and ripped it out of the man's hands, "—whether you think a—" he dodged another swipe, "—promotion's on the horizon?"
"I concur!" rumbled Bars as he swatted a ranger aside like an insect. He faced four more, but they looked more afraid of him than he of them." 'Tis not every day you fight almost a score of men with just your two friends!"
"Dashing friends," corrected Derst as he parried a sword and gave the man a quick kick to the shin, putting him down.
" 'Tis not every day you win!" replied Arya as she narrowly deflected another slash. "Fight now, talk later!"
Even with that chastening remark—or perhaps because of it—Derst continued right on chattering.
"They might even make you a Knight Protector for this!" he said. Then his brows knitted and he addressed his current opponent, blocking and parrying between each word. "What's that, eh, chap? Equivalent to Captain? Colonel? General? No, surely not that high."
He paused, expecting an answer. When nothing but another slash was forthcoming, which he dodged, Derst shrugged.
"Not sure, eh? Well, I guess I'll just have to find out."
The man bellowed and thrust again, but Derst leaped high into the air, kicked off the man's arm, flipped over his head, and come down slashing from behind. The ranger went down.
One of Bars's opponents finally made the mistake of planting his feet incorrectly on the thrust, leaving an opening as he stumbled back—an opening Bars took. With a bellow to Torm, the paladin leaped at him, working his maces independently to knock the man's sword aside. Bars thundered over the hapless ranger, knocked him flat to the ground, kicked his sword aside, and brought down both maces on the head of a fifth man who had been seeking to maneuver around Arya. With two foes down, Bars landed back on the ground and continued his defense.
With a glare, Arya lunged at the two hesitating rangers. They fell back into defensive stances, unwilling to approach the fierce woman. She was thankful for the reprieve, since pain was lancing up her leg, even as she bit her lip to ignore it.
The momentary lapse in her duel allowed Arya a moment to glance after Walker, at the Whistling Stag. She could hear nothing from within, and that did nothing to calm her nerves. It was only a momentary glance, though, then the ranger was back, sword lancing for her heart.
Her heart...
"You are his only hope," had been the wizard's words.
Arya slapped it aside and growled her frustration.

* * * * *

Meris ran into the Whistling Stag's common room only to find it deserted except for the innkeep Garion and a few regulars drinking at the bar. At the sight of the bloodied Meris, carrying a drawn axe, bursting through the door, all eyes turned.
"Oi, lad, wha' be the—" Garion began.
Running across the room, Meris slapped him across the face, silencing his next few words. Stunned, the big man staggered back and knocked a few tankards over—including the ale of a wizened old man who kept right on drinking air without noticing.
Wearing a haggard and hunted look, Meris grabbed up one of the drinkers—a drunken rake with long brown hair and a half-beard—and held the drunkard's body before him like a shield.
"Now, wait jes' a moment—" stammered Morgan.
"Silence!" shouted the wild scout. "Malar's claws!"
He held the rake up between himself and the door, as though expecting a blade to come lancing for his heart at any moment.
Then a fist came out of the darkness behind him and struck the back of his head.
Meris staggered and fell, shoving Morgan away. He drew the main gauche from the rake's belt, though, and turned with the blade slashing, but there was no one to attack. There were only the other Whistling Stag patrons, who were even now fleeing up the stairs, with a surprisingly sober Morgan following them.
"Meris Wayfarer," a haunting, ghostly voice called.
"Face me like a man, damned creature!" challenged Meris.
Walker appeared in a dark corner of the room before him, and Meris let fly with the main gauche. It stabbed into the wood wall and wobbled there.
"Dark as shadow," intoned Walker. His voice, from no visible source, echoed around the room eerily.
Meris drew a throwing knife from his belt and looked around, but no one was there.
"You will die, Meris Wayfarer, Meris the bastard," Walker promised. As he spoke, he stalked Meris around the room, passing between the shadows, always just on the verge of material presence. The drawn shatterspike glittered, as did the sapphire eye of his wolf ring, spectral as both were. "For crimes against my family, for crimes against those I love, for crimes against the people of Quaervarr and the people of the Silver Marches."
Walker stepped across a pool of light, and Meris threw the knife. It passed through the intangible ghostwalker and thunked into the closed door.
Walker continued. "I am the silence of the grave, the shock of lightning. My passing is rain upon the mountains and wind through the plains. My rage burns in the Hells, and I will bring you to those Hells. I, the spirit of vengeance, promise you death."
"Stay away from me!" shouted Meris, his expression terrified beyond belief. "Away! Take anything you want! Leave me be!"
"Tempt not the spirit of vengeance," came the voice. Walker materialized right before him, his pointing finger but a hand's breadth from the scout's face. "He comes for you."
Then Meris's expression changed and his feigned terror vanished. "Perhaps not, Rhyn," came the searing reply.

* * * * *

No matter how fierce and skilled the three knights were, they knew it was only a matter of time before the rangers realized they outnumbered the knights. With renewed vigor—aided by simple assessment of the enemy forces—the Greyt family rangers fought back with greater confidence, with multiple men going to attack each of the knights in a coordinated fashion.
"It's about time for that backup plan, Derst!" Arya shouted, parrying and running, keeping the four rangers that were now her opponents from surrounding her.
Several more were moving her way, though—maneuvering to get at her flanks. Without armor or a shield, Arya would not be able to fend off more than one or two attackers.
"Backup plan?" Derst asked dubiously, evading a swipe, rolling under the man's arm and gouging him in the thigh with his dagger. A ranger cut along his back, leaving a long red line, but Derst only grimaced, dodged, and fought on.
"You used to be a thief!" roared Bars. "You always have a backup plan!" A pair of daggers shot in, seeking his flesh. He batted one aside, and the hand that went with it, but accepted a stab from the other. A knife wound for a broken hand would be more than a fair trade—under other circumstances. "And it's about time for that plan!"
"You know," panted Derst, even as he snagged a sword with his chain-dagger, only to have the thick leather snap in two. The cutting blade nearly sliced his arm in two, and it was only Derst's reflexes that pulled it out of the way. Frowning at the destroyed weapon as he dodged and eluded his attackers, Derst finished the sentence. "I think you're right."
The door of Greyt's manor burst open and a score of men—some watchmen, some businessmen, even a couple noble dandies—with the gigantic Unddreth at their head, burst out, captured swords and daggers in their hands. With cries of "Quaervarr!" and "The Stag!" they rushed to join in the fray.
Derst had always had a talent for opening locks—and more than enough experience with cell doors.
"How's that for a backup plan, lass?" shouted Derst. Then he dived away from a frightened ranger and corrected himself. "Sorry—Arya. How about this development, eh?"
There was no reply.
"Arya?" he asked again.

* * * * *

The ghostwalker gave Meris a bittersweet smile in reply. "Rhyn Thardeyn died long ago," Walker said. "That name holds no power over me."
"No, no it doesn't," Meris said. "But your true name does, doesn't it, Rhyn Greyt?"
Walker hesitated, shock spreading over his face, and his body wrenched fully into the physical world. Immediately, Meris slashed his axe at the ghostwalker.
Stunned, Walker managed to deflect the axe, but it hooked around the shatterspike. Meris ripped the weapon from Walker's hand, spun it, caught the sword's hilt, and turned it into a stab. With his bracer, Walker managed to turn the killing thrust into his shoulder. The hand axe darted low and hooked around Walker's leg. Blinded by the pain in his shoulder, Walker couldn't resist as Meris yanked him from his feet. Walker's head slammed into the hard floorboards and the air fled from his heaving lungs.
"Your mystery is your power, Rhyn Greyt," said Meris, "is it not? Your betrayer told me this. Not so confident without your secret, are you? You didn't even know, did you?"
Walker was speechless.
"Oh yes, brother," Meris said over him, spinning the shatterspike in his hand. "Lyetha loved our father first—before Thardeyn, the old priest. When Greyt wouldn't marry her, Lyetha turned to Thardeyn to hide you. And to think, all that time pretending that you were Thardeyn's—all for naught. I always suspected, but I didn't know. Until now."
How did he know this? Who could have told him? Lyetha? She would never have...
"Why?" Walker managed to croak through the lights dancing across his eyes. He felt so weak, so unsure, so unfocused.
A memory flashed through his head, a memory of Meris: The boy stood over him. The look in his eyes; no anger, no passion, no sadness, no softness. Not even pity. Only hate.
Meris pulled the shatterspike out of Walker's shoulder and looked at its sparkle.
"How poetic, an avenger killed with his own sword," he said. "What do you say to that, Walker? You're a poet, right? Or perhaps it is really my sword, eh?"
Walker stared up at him defiantly.
"Rhyn, you've been deceived," said Meris as he held the sword between his legs and buckled the axe to his belt. His hands freed, he stripped his gauntlets so that he could kill Walker barehanded. "I did what I did fifteen years ago for my own gain and, well, because I've always hated you. You inherited all our father's qualities—singing, courage, charisma—and I took all his faults—ambition, violence and, well, madness."
Meris shared a private laugh with himself. No one joined him.
"And you probably would have taken his wealth when you came of age. The truth would have come out, I knew—somehow." He growled. "And that's 'why,' really. My father would've spared you in the forest—the coward. He just wanted to frighten you, but I took the healing ring off your finger." He trailed off with a smile. "You were the first sibling I killed, even if I didn't know it at the time. Now you will be the last as well."
Flashes of the forest swam in his mind—the rapier that rammed through his chest, that cut his throat and ruined his voice. Greyt's sword. But the healing ring...
The boy with eyes filled with hate loomed over him. The wolf's head ring sparkled in his hand. "Let's hear you sing now," he said as his father's sword descended.
A tear slid down Walker's cheek. How could Meris have known this? Walker had not even known. Who knew Walker's name? Who knew what only Lyetha could know? Who could have betrayed him?
Walker did not know, and now it was too late.
Meris laughed. "And here, look at me, gloating over my victory like my old man!" A chuckle. "Can't forget that ring—my father's ring." Meris knelt and pulled the wolf's head ring from Walker's finger, tearing away much of the improvised covering as he did so. Then he leaned over and ran a finger along Walker's cheek.
The touch of death.
"Well, Rhyn, let's hear you sing now," Meris said as he raised the sword over his head.

* * * * *

In a distant grove, among verdant trees that seemed to weep in the winter's breeze, a ghostly golden figure stood atop a huge, overturned boulder and looked into the sinking sun.
"It is done," Gylther'yel said with a sigh.

* * * * *

"Meris!" came a shout.
The wild scout hesitated and looked. Wild-eyed, Arya stood across the room, sword in hand. She wore almost as much blood as cloth—not all of it her own—and her hair blazed in the lamplight.
"Arya," Walker managed. "No..."
The lady knight bent her knees and held the blade low.
"Come, bastard," she growled. "We are not done yet, you and I. We have had this dance waiting from the beginning."
Meris sneered. "You should've killed me while my back was turned, while you had the chance."
"Knights do not stab enemies in the back," Arya said.
Meris gave her a mock salute and chuckled. Then he charged, shatterspike and axe held out to his sides. Arya ran at him, sword held low.
They met in the center of the common room, blades whirring and sparks flying. Arya slashed in high, and Meris picked off the attack with shatterspike and axe then spun, bringing the weapons around at her head. Arya ducked the shatterspike and parried the axe, sending the axe back and shooting in a fist to pound Meris's chest through the opening he left. Her punch hardly affected the man through his thick leather armor, and he pushed her back with a lunge. The two separated for a moment.
"Oh, yes, wench, that's right," laughed Meris, beckoning her with his axe. "A valiant stand, as useless as valor itself!"
The knight fought silently, though her shoulders heaved from the exertion of battle. Weariness shuddered through her body, threatening to slow her blade. Arya reasoned that perhaps she should just run—she could never defeat Meris alone, even if she were fresh, fully armed, and fully armored. His skill was beyond hers. What was she doing here? Letting Walker see her one last time, only to see her killed?
She could not run, though. A Knight in Silver never ran, and never abandoned her friends and those she loved. She would fight Meris to the death—likely her death, but at least she would not die a coward, as he was.
Then Arya saw something out of the corner of her eye, and hope glimmered in her heart.
"For the Marches!" she cried, throwing herself forward in a desperate lunge.
Meris, momentarily caught off guard by the wild thrust, brought the shatterspike around to parry her sword high, even as he swung in low with the axe to trip her. Then the blade twisted in Arya's hand—a rolling of the wrist that reduced her grip almost to nothing—and her long sword went under the shatterspike, deflecting it wide. The notched steel sheared off against the shatterspike and she dropped the broken hilt. Her left hand shot in and seized the throwing dagger at Meris's belt even as her sword hand grasped his wrist with as much strength as she could muster. The axe, ignored, hooked around her knee to pull her down.
"What are you—" Meris started even as he pulled with his axe.
"A trick I learned from Walker!" Arya snapped.
Then Meris screamed in pain as Arya drove the tiny blade into his unarmored wrist.
The shatterspike tumbled from Meris's nerveless hand even as he yanked Arya to the ground. Since she was still holding his arm, he fell with her. As she fell, she caught the ghostly blade in her free hand—by luck not shearing off her fingers—and held it between them, its hilt against the floorboards. As Meris fell, his weight drove the blade through his left side.
The two of them stayed there for a moment, Arya holding herself up under the impaled Meris, who rested on his knees. Blood leaked from his mouth and he looked at the knight without comprehension.
Then madness returned to his eyes and, with it, rage. Meris spat blood on Arya's face, causing her to wince. Then, his hand scrabbled across the floor and seized her fallen, splinted sword. He slammed the hilt into Arya's forehead, knocking her back, stunned. As he rose, Meris didn't seem to notice the sword running through his side. He turned the splintered sword in his hands and loomed over Arya, ready to deliver the killing stroke.
Then he stopped as a chilling melody came from behind.

* * * * *

Meris turned.
Walker, standing again, sang a song of dark beauty, a lullaby to lead a sleeper into the endless night, a song of velvet softness and nameless fear. The words in lyrical Elvish, it was a song of mourning, begging for forgiveness, and promising vengeance.
Stunned, Meris looked at Walker for a moment, his eyes wide and staring. Then he came back to his senses and slashed the broken sword at Walker's head. The dark warrior ducked smoothly and reached out with both hands. He pulled the blade from Meris's side and stabbed it back into the dusky youth's chest.
Meris looked down at the sword and gave a weak gasp. The scout's limbs went limp and he sagged, but Walker caught his body and held his face up.
"Who?" he demanded. "Tell me. Who?"
He did not truly need to ask, for Meris had torn the bandage free of his left hand and he felt the truth keenly through his bare skin, in ghostly resonance, from the shatterspike. But some part of him had to be sure.
Meris smiled almost wistfully. "The Ghostly Lady," he said.
It seemed to Walker that he should be surprised, hurt, or frightened, but he felt nothing. Nothing but cold.
Then Meris's eyes slid closed for the last time.
Walker held the cooling body for a moment, looking into the face he had hated so much, the last of his tormentors and the one who had taken his dream from him.
Somehow, he felt no anger. Only sadness.
"How?" Arya asked as he helped her to her feet. "How did you do it? The name. I thought your name had destroyed you."
"Rhyn Thardeyn will always be my name," the ghostwalker said. "Never Rhyn Greyt."
Before they left the Whistling Stag, Walker looked back at Meris's body.
"Farewell, my brother," he murmured.

CHAPTER 23

30 Tarsakh

As the sun set, Walker stood in the center of Quaervarr's main plaza, his cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. The rain had passed and the clouds were clearing, but the fearsome wind still blew, threatening to rip cloaks from the backs of any foolish enough to go outside. Despite this, hundreds milled about the square, voices chattering and shouting. Though the place was abuzz with activity, Walker's silent and unmoving form went largely unnoticed.
The watch, with Captain Unddreth restored to command, had taken control of the courtyard quickly and was even now sorting out the prisoners. The surviving rangers—all fifteen of them, several too injured to move without assistance—were shuttled into the Quaervarr jail and, when that was full, to the very dungeons that had until recently housed Unddreth and others loyal to Geth Stonar.
The rangers would be held until such time as their ultimate fate could be decided, but Arya had dissuaded Unddreth from calling for the noose. Loyal men should not be punished so severely for defending their master, especially when they thought him to be a noble and virtuous hero, she had convinced him.
A courier had been dispatched to fetch Speaker Stonar back from Silverymoon, along with a cadre of watchmen for protection. They also sought to ascertain the fate of Clearwater and the other riders. One of the druids went along as well—the Oak House simply couldn't ignore the disappearance of two of their own, one their mistress.
In Quaervarr's main plaza, a crowd had gathered to listen as Arya and her companions explained the events of the last few days. Under the watchful and approving eye of the stony-faced Unddreth, the knights spoke of Greyt's plots, kidnappings, and murders, as well as the atrocities committed by Meris and his cronies. The town had been thrown into disarray, with the late Lord Singer's charismatic bravado pressing against the firm, peaceful rule of Geth Stonar. With the recounting of the day's bloody events and the revealing of the truth, however, most of the citizenship had grown disillusioned with the legend of Greyt and turned back to those civil leaders they could trust: Stonar and Unddreth.
Mercifully, Arya chose to remain silent about the events of fifteen years previous—Walker did not think he could stomach a retelling of his murder. In addition, he lived, once again, in mystery—a mystery that kept all the citizens, except for the most inquisitive (and foolish) children, away from him as he rested and healed. The silver wolf's head ring was back around his finger, helping his wounds re-knit and his scars disappear, a process that Walker had gone through so many times he hardly even felt the itchy tingling running through his body.
Hardly, that is to say, except for four particular wounds. With the deaths of Greyt and Meris, the flesh they had broken could finally heal. Though he would carry the scars, and speak in a whisper to the end of his days, Walker felt nearly whole.
Then a pain seized him and Walker's tranquil frown dipped.
That was when he knew he was not fully whole. He had one task still to complete, one last wrong to set right, one last crime to avenge. He had one last life to take.
Shifting into his ghostsight, Walker turned to the side, expecting to see the spirit of Tarm Thardeyn, who had always given him silent guidance. But there was no spirit there.
Walker smiled. He remembered watching the spirits of Tarm and Lyetha fade, reunited at last in death. He also remembered the gentle, sweet emotion that had swept through him at the time—love, the kind of feeling Walker knew when he looked upon Arya Venkyr.
Arya.
Walker looked over at her as she addressed a body of gathered citizens, much as Lord Greyt had done in the past. She had cleaned her hair and wounds after the battle, and Bars had applied his healing touch to her as well. The knight was radiant in the fading sunlight that filtered through the clouds, the silver of her armor gleaming and her hair burning. As though she noticed him watching, she drew herself up straighter and tiny spots of red bloomed in her cheeks.
How could she ever understand what he had to do? How could he explain it to her?
Walker decided he could not. He simply had to do it.
With a sigh—a gesture that would have seemed foreign to him a few days ago—he pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked away.

* * * * *

Smiling broadly at the shouts of support, Arya turned away from the crowd and massaged her throat. Shouting for such a long time had worn out her voice, but it had been worth it. Her mission was accomplished: the threat to stability in the Silver Marches removed. Finally, she could relax.
A strand of auburn hair blew in her face, and she brushed it aside. As soon as she had done so, though, she realized something was amiss.
Walker was not there.
Gripped by sudden, unreasoning panic, Arya scanned the plaza. She caught sight of him at last, striding toward the main street of the town, as though to leave.
"Walker!" she called, breaking into a run. At the sound of her voice, he stopped and let her hurry to his side. She put gauntleted fingers on his arm. "You're going?"
Rather than looking at her, Walker's eyes were far away.
"All my scars are healed, all my enemies dead," he said. "All but one." He put his hand over his heart.
Confused, Arya covered that hand with her own. Walker smiled at the touch.
"I don't understand," she said. "Who else is there?"
"My teacher," replied Walker. "She who taught me my powers. She who betrayed me." He paused, as though digesting that. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sad. "Gylther'yel, the Ghostly Lady."
"The spirit of the Dark Woods?" asked Arya. "The folk legend? She actually exists?"
Walker nodded. "And she is powerful," he added, "much more powerful than any foe either of us has faced, able to level armies with a sweep of her fingers."
"Armies?" she mouthed. Walker moved to go, but Arya held his arm tighter. "You can't go now—wait until there are more of us! Wait until we find Clearwater and can muster up a score of warriors, Legionnaires, Knights in Silver, wizards of the Spellguard—"
"No," said Walker. "This is my fight, and my fight alone. No man or woman will die in my place."
His fatalistic tone made Arya's heart race. "Wait, at least, until you are fully rested—"
"If I do not confront her now, I will never find her," replied Walker. "Her spies are even now on the wing, going to tell her all that has transpired today. I must fight her now." Arya frowned, but Walker was firm. "I will heal as I walk."
The knight did not understand, and she bit her lip.
He took another step, but still Arya held him back. He turned to her, his eyes cold and hard, and Arya swallowed. She had meant to argue, but the determination she saw in those eyes told her that it would be no use. She closed her eyes, fighting within herself for words, and when they finally came, she fixed him with a gaze as full of resolve as his own.
"Then I am coming with you," she said.
"You are not...." "Walker started to argue, but then he trailed off. He did not need to look into her steely eyes to know argument was useless. "As you will. But if you are to come—" With a twist, he removed the wolf ring and offered it to her. "You will need protection."
"But—but you need healing," she protested.
"The shadows will provide," said Walker.
Though she did not understand, Arya found herself trusting him. She slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It felt heavy, but she took reassurance in its weight. She nodded then took a step away, meaning to call for her horse.
This time, it was Walker's turn to grasp her arm and stop her.
"You will need no horse for this journey," he said.
Arya slid out of his grasp and eyed him. "How do we journey, then?" she asked, hesitant to be away from Swiftfall and her trusty lance.
"The only way Gylther'yel will not hear us coming—along the most silent of paths." He extended a hand silently to her. "The Shadow."
Arya shivered. "Can she not see ghosts, if she is a ghost?" asked Arya.
"Not the Ethereal. The Shadow," he said. "This is the only way."
The others in the plaza had observed the two by now, and Bars and Derst were walking over, wearing questioning looks.
"Take my hand," said Walker, his eyes gleaming.
Arya gnawed on her lip, indecisive. Though she wanted to delay, to explain to her brother knights the reason she had to go, or even ask them to accompany her, she felt Walker's need for haste.
"The grove!" she called out to Unddreth, Bars, and Derst. Then she stepped into Walker's reach and clutched his outstretched hand.
Instantly, shadows surrounded them and the world seemed to turn black. Walker wrapped his billowing cloak around her and took her firmly in his embrace.
"We walk the shadowy realm beyond the Border Ethereal—the Shadow Fringe—where our travel will be quickened," explained Walker. "Whatever you may see, whatever you may feel—remember that I am with you. Whatever else speaks, do not reply. Cling tightly to me—I will not forsake you."
Arya nodded.
Then, as Walker took a step forward, she followed him into the shadows.

* * * * *

Arya felt her lungs fill with smoke, and she could not breathe. As they stepped between worlds, all the colors of Quaervarr and even the sun seemed to fade to a dull, bleak haze. She felt a tug, as though the very darkness pulled her in. Her gorge rose and her stomach danced. The afternoon sunlight became muddy, as though the sun were but a smoldering torch behind thick spider webs.
Surrounding her were a multitude of moving figures, all engaged in different activities, from pacing back and forth, to acting out duels, to mumbling or shouting incoherently. Their faces were blurry, obscured as though by a hand that had smudged their very being and wiped their features from sight. She started, seeing the men and women who had been in the square as mere blobs of light, and she became aware of the heat flowing from them like water.
This is the ghost world, she thought. From here, we step into Shadow.
An ephemeral man lunged at her out of the darkness, so violently and with such rage burning from him that Arya screamed and clutched at Walker. At the same time, a wave of panic washed over her.
"I am here," came a voice, a deep and resonating voice, along with a wave of comfort. The angry spirit spun past her and continued on its way, jabbering about orc chieftains it had faced.
A wave of sadness not of her own making swept through her.
"Gharask is an old spirit—the father of Dharan Greyt. He has haunted Quaervarr for fifteen years," said the voice. "Kept there by anger, rage, and helplessness. Perhaps tonight we will set him to rest."
Caught up in Walker's arms, Arya felt herself borne away on wings of shadow. The angry spirit, and the gathered multitude vanished, along with the darkened buildings of Quaervarr. Soon, Arya found herself in the woods, where Walker continued his slow steps, each of them covering dozens of paces.
Then there came a scream, jolting Arya's attention to a spirit who ran beside them. Her face was blurred, but when Arya focused upon her features, they shifted and cleared. She was a comely woman, younger than Arya, but her features were lined with wrinkles of madness and her eyes burned with impotent wrath. There was a bloody wound in her breast.
"Why? Why? Why?" she asked, repeating the word again and again, building in volume until it was so loud that it stung Arya's ears. The spirit wept black tears, which disintegrated in the smoky air.
"Chandra Stardown?" asked Arya, as she recognized the spirit. She had known Chandra in Silverymoon—both had served under Sernius Alathar as cadets, but Arya had not seen her since her promotion into the order.
Chandra's spirit seemed stunned for a moment. Then she burst back into her demands, reaching for Arya.
"Why! Why! Why!"
Startled, Arya cried, "I know not!"
At this, Chandra paused again, but then gave a wrenching scream, stunning Arya to silence, and reached at her with fingernails grown into claws. The knight gasped and reached for her sword, but a warning hand clamped down upon her wrist.
"Whatever you see, do not reply!" repeated Walker. "I am here—I am the only one here!"
Arya started to argue, but then the spirit gave a gasp and vanished, as though it had suddenly fallen from a galloping horse they rode. Chastened, Arya clung to Walker, her only protection in this strange and fearful place. They continued their trek through the Shadow.
For the longest time, Arya did not dare to look up at Walker. Fear and horror surrounded her like the very air, and it was only through Walker's soothing presence that she was able to keep her sanity in the darkness.
"Walker?" Arya finally asked, trembling. "Tell me something?"
"Perhaps."
"Do you live... all your life like this?" she asked.
"Always in darkness," was Walker's only reply, a reply that sent a chill of fear down Arya's spine. If her ghostly, shadow body had a spine, that is.
As if in response, a wave of adoration came over her, then sympathy for her fear. With a start, Arya realized she could feel his emotions, rather than just hear his voice. For the first time, Arya mustered the courage to look up. She caught her breath.
Walker's darkness was gone. In its place, his skin was golden and his hair glowing. His body seemed built of light and his life-force warm. He had spoken true of healing, for his body seemed to be siphoning energy from the shadow and turning it into light. In the world of the dead, Walker shone bright and alive, a shining beacon among the shadows.
"Walker, you ... you're so different," said Arya. "So ... bright."
A wave of confusion came to her then, and when she explained, she felt his disbelief.
"You must be mistaken," Walker explained. "You glow brightly to me, a creature of life. I should not shine brightly, for I am a creature of shadow—I dwell always in darkness."
"I only describe what I see," said Arya.
Walker inclined his head, which registered to Arya as a blur of light.
"Perhaps," he allowed. Then he stopped walking and clutched her hand. A wave of trepidation came from him, and Arya realized she had never known Walker to be afraid.
"What is the matter?" asked Arya, worried. She could see no attackers, no spirits at all. Even the trees seemed to have vanished.
"We have arrived."

CHAPTER 24

30 Tarsakh

Pulling Arya with him, Walker stepped from the Shadow Fringe into the center of his grove and the Material. He quickly became aware of two things that had changed since his last visit. The three bodies of the Greyt family rangers were gone, and the body of an unknown woman lay entwined in vines not far to the north.
"Druid Clearwater?" asked Arya wonderingly. She ran toward her.
"No, wait!" Walker shouted, but it was too late to stop the knight.
Arya knelt beside Clearwater and felt at her throat. Even as Arya confirmed that the druid rested in a magical slumber, the vines that held the druid prisoner began to twitch and sway, as though with an eerie mind of their own. Arya gasped and scrambled back from the vines that reached, fingerlike, to ensnare her arms and legs. Despite her struggling, they caught her, pulled, and dragged her to her knees.
Walker sprang to her side, the shatterspike whistling through the air as he sliced low and then high, horizontally over Arya's head, severing two thick tendrils of vines that held the knight fast. Freed for a moment, Arya managed to draw her sword and hack away at a vine that had caught her left arm. After two swings, it ripped apart and whipped through the air like a snake, recoiling from the knight.
"Back!" Walker commanded, and Arya staggered away, leaving him next to the enwrapped Amra Clearwater.
The entangling vines did not attack the ghostwalker, however—almost as though he were not there. Instead, the vines coiled snugly around Clearwater's limp form, awaiting their next target.
"Are you amused, Gylther'yel?" he called, his voice rolling across the grove. "Are you watching us from hiding, awaiting the time to strike us down?"
There came no response. Arya looked at Walker, but he waved to the knight, reassuring her.
"Have you become a watcher once more, apart from the affairs of humans?" he asked.
The grove was silent.
"Or are you afraid?" he pressed. "Afraid to show yourself, because I remind you so keenly of your failure?"
The Ghostly Lady appeared, rising from the ground in a mist, her ghostly body as insubstantial as the spirits Walker saw every moment. Afraid? she asked, her voice sounding in Walker's mind. I fear nothing.
"I have left the ghostly realm," said Walker. "Face me upon the ground of mortals."
Why, when the two of us should be gods? Gylther'yel asked in reply. When Walker said nothing, she laughed. Very well. Then her form became substantial. Arya, who had never seen her, was stunned at her golden beauty in the fading sunlight.
"You pick a fitting time to come against me, Rhyn Greyt," she said in Elvish. "When the sun of life sets and Selune rises, bringing the night in her wake. The night is our ally, a friend to all of us who dwell in darkness."
"I have come to destroy you," Walker said in the Common tongue.
Gylther'yel merely laughed. "The prodigal son has lost his way, and returns with helpless dreams of violence," she replied in kind. "You have no inkling of my power."
"Nevertheless, I have come to sweep your perversion from the face of Faerun," said Walker, drawing his sword.
"My perversion?" asked Gylther'yel. Both humans could hear the anger in her voice, anger hidden carefully behind a mask of ice. "My perversion? Have you forgotten that it was I who taught you your own perverse powers? I who returned you to life when you should be dead? If anything, we share the same corruption."
She waved at Arya, where she stood at Walker's side with her sword and shield up, but Gylther'yel addressed Walker.
"You favor the living, though you and I belong in the cult of the dead. Rhyn, you disappoint me. I had thought your mind broader than that of a mere human."
"This is my choice," said Walker.
"You merely confirm my over-estimation of your intellect," said Gylther'yel. "Humans cannot choose. Lyetha could not choose between Dharan Greyt and Tarm Thardeyn until circumstance forced her hand. Dharan Greyt could not choose between weeping for the love he had lost and vengeance against the man—and the boy—who had stolen her, until I called to him fifteen years ago. Meris Wayfarer could not choose between fear of his father and vengeance, until I ordered him to slay his father... and you, his brother."
She laughed. "Even your little pet there, Arya Venkyr, cannot choose between justice and her heart." She turned her attention on the knight, who bristled at her words. "How do you justify yourself, Nightingale of Everlund, loving a man who espouses the very darkness and murder you deny? Walker, the avenger, the assassin? Vengeance is not justice, and Walker is nothing if not a vengeful god."
Arya's mouth moved, as though to argue with the ghost druid, but she found she could not. She turned her head, shamed.
Gylther'yel smiled. Then she turned back to Walker.
"And you cannot choose between loyalties," she said. "Loyalty to she who raised you from a child, and loyalty to she who would carry your child, she whom you love." The ghost druid spat the last word.
There it was. Walker knew the words to be true. His resolution wavered and faltered, stolen by the damning accusation. Desperately, Walker opened his mouth to argue.
"Do not attempt to deny it," she added, interrupting Walker's words. "I sense the conflict within you, the struggle to raise your blade. You cannot choose. You claim to dwell in darkness, Rhyn Greyt, you claim resolve and unwavering resolution, but you dwell in ambivalence only."
"You betrayed me," said Walker as he lifted the shatterspike and pointed it toward the ghost druid. His resolution had wavered, but now anger replaced it—a long—simmering rage that had been galvanized by the sound of his blood name. "I was your guardian—and you betrayed me. I have no choice but to—"
Gylther'yel laughed aloud. "And so you allow me to make your choice for you, once again," she said. "Young fool. You have never 'chosen,' all your life—all has been as I have directed, all as I have planned. I created your vengeance, so that you would wipe the truth away. I delayed you these fifteen years so that your foes would not recognize you as the boy they had killed and reveal the truth. The weak-willed Meris was the final test—of your abilities and your loyalties—and you have passed that test. I have made you my willing tool, my dark falcon, my hunting wolf, who claims independence and cannot sense the leash that binds him to me."
It sounded so preposterous—had not Gylther'yel been the one stopping his vengeance? Had not she tried to kill him with Meris, first in the forest, then in Quaervarr? But something inside Walker, something buried in the depths of his heart, knew—hoped—it to be true.
"Why? How could you do this to me?" asked Walker through clenched teeth.
Gylther'yel assumed a hurt expression.
"Everything I have done, I have done for love of you," she said. "To strengthen you. To raise the god of ghosts you have become, Son."
"Son?" asked Walker in complete astonishment. In his heart, though, he felt that she spoke the truth. Or, rather, he prayed with every fiber of his being that she spoke the truth.
The shatterspike shook in his trembling hand and he fell to his knees. The emotions he had kept long suppressed were surfacing with terrible force. Gylther'yel was right—even as she had betrayed him, he had known that his reins belonged to her. As he thought back to every argument, he realized that she had manipulated him into his course. Gylther'yel, the stern, distant mother, controlled his every action with an iron hand and velvet words.
"Walker?" Arya asked, reaching out to comfort him. Gylther'yel's eyes flicked to her, and she extended a clawed hand toward the knight.
Sudden tremors tore through the grove and threw Arya to the ground. A hulking claw of earth erupted from the ground and caught her between its five fingers. The knight screamed and struggled, but the fingers—each as thick as her body—were too strong. The claw closed around her and held her aloft, even as Gylther'yel closed her hand halfway and smiled.
The ghostwalker, stunned at the ghost druid's attack, had just leaped to his feet when a ring of fire surrounded him, cutting him off from Arya. He slashed at the flames with his shatterspike, and the tip of the blade glowed red with heat.
"Walker!" screamed Arya. "Don't give up! Don't give in to—" Her words were cut off in a screech of pain as Gylther'yel closed her hand tighter and the claws closed around Arya's body. The vines that bound the unconscious Amra Clearwater reached up and began whipping at the knight, tearing at her metal armor and exposed skin.
Walker instantly retreated into etherealness, meaning to leap through the flames and attack, but Gylther'yel's fire burned just as brightly there. Walker cursed himself for a fool—of course the ghost druid's magic pierced the veil between worlds. Such was the nature of the netherworld powers they shared.
Fighting the helpless rage that clawed at his heart, Walker turned back to Gylther'yel and held his sword low to the ground.
Why? he asked, and the words flowed from his mind, but, in his sinking heart, he knew the answer. She had lied. This was an attempt to delay him, not to express any real love. Gylther'yel had indeed sent Meris to kill him. Her words had startled him, and he had fallen into her trap.
Gylther'yel wove her hands in another casting, and the wall of fire began to close around Walker. Once again, and for the last time, I make your choice for you, she said in his head. You have the choice to die, the choice I denied you fifteen years ago, and I choose that you will take it now.
He had been a fool to trust in Gylther'yel, a fool to listen to her coaxing words. Meris had not been a test—he had been Gylther'yel's attempt to slay her errant guardian. It had all been a trick, a trap designed to stab at his deepest desire—the desire for another.
It was so welcoming, so easy to fall into the embrace of a mother, or a father, or even a lover, and to let his choices be determined by another. So easy....
And now he would pay the price for his dependence, his lack of self-worth, a fault that had been buried beneath years of darkness, vengeance, and hatred. All of his life was coming to an end, all of his strength was unraveling.
The ghostwalker knew himself defeated.

* * * * *

Wriggling, ignoring the crushing pain that threatened to shatter her limbs, Arya finally managed to pull her blade free. She brought the borrowed Quaervarr steel down on the earthen hand, sending sparks and shards flying. Though her arm soon went numb from the ringing vibrations her swings caused, she sent a spider web of cracks across the thumb of the hand.
Suddenly a soul-wrenching cry that broke into a high-pitched wail shattered her concentration. The scream split the boundaries of life and death and jarred her very soul.
Walker's scream.
Panicked, Arya looked over at the ghost druid and ghostwalker and her breath caught. Walker had vanished, but somehow she could feel him there. Even now, she knew he fought beyond her physical sight, but not beyond the range of her heart.
Nor, she realized, beyond the range of her voice.
Though she could not see him, his ghostsight would allow him to see—and more importantly hear—her.
"Rhyn Thardeyn!" she cried. "Rhyn Thardeyn! I believe in you, Rhyn! I believe in you!"
As she shouted those words, words that did not even break Gylther'yel's concentration, she brought her sword down on the stone finger with one last mighty blow. The blade was terribly notched and bent but it held for 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

Greengrass, The Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)

When Arya awoke, what could have been days later but was merely nightfall, she could see nothing through the darkness that surrounded her.
She did not need her sight, though, for she keenly remembered that haunting scream and the terrible flash of light that went with it. Gripping the grass in front of her, Arya pulled herself hand over hand, toward where she had seen Gylther'yel fall. She did not have far to go.
The grass receded as she reached a scarred swath of land, and Arya knew that she had found where Gylther'yel had died—died in a great explosion nothing could have survived.
Why, then, was Arya alive? Why had she...
Then Arya felt the surprisingly cool metal around her finger, and she knew.
The wolf's head ring! The damnable ring had kept her alive! Alive, on the very spot...
Had he known it would end this way? Had he known that one of them would die, and chosen to save her? Had he known, all along?
With a moan, Arya felt around blindly. Long, agonizing moments passed before she realized there was nothing there to find. Walker and Gylther'yel had both vanished.
A wave of love, undying love, washed over her, and Arya wept in agony, great sobs welling up from her aching, torn body. The sound attracted someone else from nearby, who came to her side. Arya felt a momentary swell of hope, that perhaps it was Walker, but even her blurry vision could tell her it was not.
"There, there," a feminine voice whispered in her ear. Tender arms hugged her. "My name's Amra Clearwater. You're safe now."
"Wh-where is he?" Arya asked in agony, only part of it physical. "Wh-where...?"
"Who?" Amra asked. "There is no one here but you and me. The Ghostly Lady's gone. There was no one else."
"He's gone," said Arya, her heart sinking. "Gone without me..."
But then there was another sound, cutting her off. Even as Selune ushered in the dawn of spring, rising silver and full, a lonely wolf howled.
"Seek your redemption," Arya whispered to the wind, tears sliding down her cheeks. "And if—when—you find it, I'll be waiting."
Arya smiled as darkness closed around her and she knew no more.
Amra Clearwater smiled sadly, thinking the now-slumbering knight spoke nonsense.
The wolf's song to the spring moon was at an end.

The Nightingale's Song

A cold hand touches my cheek, but it is only wind,
the breeze that caressed us as we lay
peaceful and warm among the shadows,
tangled together and guarded by stars.
In love—in a moment.

Now you walk one way and I the other,
but your voice lingers in my mind —
I hear its broken beauty shattering the stillness,
and I know I would throw my memories away
for just one moment more with you.

But all I can lose is your ring from my hand,
a kindness and a curse, and
all I have left of you to touch.
Though I walk lonely into the years,
I won't let go.

I could not save you, could not find your path.
Were you too lost for salvation?
Perhaps, you would say. But, perhaps
I was the one who lost the way,
And you saved me.

—composed by Lady Arya Venkyr (1375 DR)
Translated from the original Elvish