Read Online Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie - Free Book Online

be the reason. Meris cursed the strange weather but did not let it distract him from his search. Still, the falling water had done its work. He looked for tracks in the muddy ground and found none—had the man left any, they must have been washed away in the storm. There was no trace of even a horse’s passing, much less a man’s presence.
    The man in black had simply vanished, as though he’d melted into the shadows, or had never been there in the first place.
    But Meris knew it hadn’t been an illusion or a dream. The man in black had been real, was real. Meris did not remember ever feeling so cold, so hateful when he had looked upon anyone, and yet something was familiar about that haunted gaze, that thin posture…
    Ignoring the crowd that had formed around him in the street, Meris started back to Greyt’s manor.
     

     
    When Claudir returned, Arya had just finished her tale.
    “And I suppose your father has nothing to say about your gallivanting around the Marches with a sword instead of keeping track of the family fortune and studying your letters like a proper girl?” Greyt took a drink. He had drained the rest of his second glass and was now working on a third. “Does he approve of your stay in Quaervarr, I wonder?”
    “He doesn’t say anything about it, since he doesn’t know I’m here,” Arya explained. She was still working on her first glass—Arya had never been fond of strong drink. “You and he are estranged—he’d never think to look for me here. And Quaervarr is remote, even if it is only a full day’s ride from Silverymoon. I was wintering there, and he’ll expect me to have gone farther out of his reach, not run to an uncle I hardly know and my father hardly tolerates.”
    “You are very candid,” Greyt said with a little frown. Then he smiled. “I like that. Reminds me of me, in my fiery youth.” He reached over and took his golden yarting from the sideboard—clearly, it had been placed purposefully—and strummed a chord. “Now I’m just an old man who likes music. I want none of your father’s rash anger or politicking, but I am a doting uncle. You’re free to stay here in Quaervarr as long as you like, but if Everlund’s knights come knocking, my doors I won’t be locking.” It was a musical line.
    Arya bowed. “I understand,” she said. “Thank you, Uncle. I ask for nothing more.”
    “And that you shall have,” Greyt said, amused at his own wit. He stood with a flourish. “But please accept my invitation to dine here tonight. Claudir … set an extra place, if you would.”
    The steward piped up. “But sir, I have not prepared—”
    “Ah, three extra places,” Bars corrected.
    “Don’t you mean four, Sir Hartpaunch?” Derst countered. “You’ll need two.”
    Claudir blanched. “But sir,” he said, “I have only enough in the storerooms—”
    “Do not trouble yourself, Goodman Claudir,” Arya said. “We must decline your generous offer. We have business at the Whistling Stag, and if we’re to keep a low profile, we shouldn’t dine in such luxury as your, ah, beautiful home.” She wasn’t sure those last words were true, but she said them for the sake of etiquette.
    Greyt inclined his head. “Quite acceptable,” he said. “I wish you a good night.”
    Bars and Derst rose to leave and Arya turned away. “As soon as we pay Speaker Stonar a visit, and ask him to keep our presence a secret—” she said.
    “Oh, that’s a shame,” Greyt said. “He’s just gone to Silverymoon—he left yesterday. You must have passed him on the road.”
    Arya’s face fell, but only for a moment. Then her smile was back and she shrugged. “Well, I suppose that saves me a visit, doesn’t it? Well met.”
    “Sweet wine and light jests, until next we might meet,” replied Greyt.
    It was a version of the traditional elf farewell, but it struck Arya as inexplicably unnerving.
    The three moved toward the door Claudir had opened for them. Greyt sank back onto the couch,