The beautiful half-elf continued in a light voice. "Some barrier thwarts our spells, as though a dark moon rises over Quaervarr and shrouds our sight," she said.
"A magical barrier?" asked Greyt. "Then our enemy is more powerful than I thought!"
Cheers mingled with gasps of horror. The crowd fixed its eyes on the Lord Singer. The roguish knight and the paladin looked at one another, utterly confused. What could Greyt be thinking? Did he want to start a panic?
Silence, tense and fearful, gripped the square.
Greyt grinned. "Fear not, though, for the danger has passed," he said. "Thanks to my efforts, the killer is in our hands and we shall question him to find-"
"He escaped!" Bars shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "The killer escaped!"
"Dolt," Derst cursed under his breath, turning his head so as not to be recognized.
Greyt swore inwardly, angry at this news. He had no doubt it was true. He had ordered his men to take Walker alive or dead but at all costs to take him. Incompetence and failure vied for his greatest frustration.
He moved to rub his gold ring, but found he had taken it off. Around his finger was a shallow indentation, reminding him of the first ring he had worn there, the ring that had inspired his seal.
His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. Walker's escape snarled Greyt's carefully laid plans. He was momentarily unsure how to proceed. His criticism of the watch would not carry the same weight if his own men could not capture Walker. And, loose, the murderer could talk to Unddreth, Amra, or even Stonar himself, and all would be lost.
Then the solution presented itself. The Lord Singer's quick mind found a way to approach this news that simply delayed his plans and, perhaps, even strengthened them.
"A testament to the power arrayed against us. Surrounded by attackers, cut off from the Marches… For all we know, there could be a war brewing just outside our borders!"
The crowd gaped.
"Save us, Lord Singer!" came a shout, a call that was quickly picked up throughout the crowd. Shouts of his nickname, "Quickfinger," and praises of his heroism reverberated around the square. "Save us!"
Greyt smiled and bowed. "The killer was in my hands, but he escaped. He will not escape again." He drew his rapier in a flourish and held it above his head. "Thirty years ago, I took up this sword against the giants of Fierce Eye, when the Raven Claw band was first formed. Know this now and know it true: mine every breath shall shield you!"
As he sang the last few words, rhyming poorly, but it did not matter with such simpletons, Greyt seemed to grow: a trick he managed by standing up straight, where he had formerly bent his knees. A bit of bardic magic set his sword blazing with fire and illumined his face. The crowd was in awe.
Time for the final touch.
"I promise you, people of Quaervarr: as I was your hero then, so am I your hero now!"
With that, he released the illusory fire and the blade seemed to explode in flames, sending sparks flying over the crowd. These vanished before they struck flesh or clothing, and the people gaped in astonishment. They burst into cheers and shouts, calling for Lord Dharan "Quickfinger" Greyt, the hero of Quaervarr. The Lord Singer basked in the adulation and praise, his heart rushing despite himself.
Ah, the thrill of heroism… how he had missed it!
"Send out riders!" came a call above the crowd, and the thrill died like a snuffed candle flame.
"What? " Greyt mouthed, looking over the suddenly silent crowd.
"Send out riders," Amra Clearwater called again. "Speaker Stonar must be informed."
"My lady, really," Greyt said as all eyes turned to him. He halted himself, thinking quickly, for the half-elf druid was widely respected and even feared for the powers of Silvanus she commanded. "We cannot simply go running for help every time-"
"But Geth does not know," argued Amra. "Let us assuage his ignorance-give him the chance to do his duty. Let him help!"
Greyt swore inwardly, trapped by his own words, but he saw a way out, one that could turn this to his advantage.
"A rider then." Greyt said. "But the Moonwood is dangerous-it is too easy for one of our own to be lost and slain!"
That elicited a gasp of horror from the crowd, but he waved them to silence.
Greyt smiled. "One who knows the land and its powers. One of your druids perhaps, Lady?"
All eyes turned to Amra, and the half-elf frowned. Greyt knew she could not refuse, not after she had challenged Quaervarr's hero so openly.
"Fine," said Amra with clear hesitation. "I shall send one of my own."
"Excellent," Greyt shouted with a flourish of his hands. The threat past, he grinned. "Now, for the rest of you: go back to your homes and rest your heads, safe in your beds. Your hero protects you all, great and small."
If the cheers had been loud before, they erupted like a volcano now. Hundreds of eyes stared at Greyt in sheer adoration and absolute faith. He was their hero, their master, their shining knight, and he was fully in control of this situation.
Secure in his role, Greyt gave them one more smile, waved, and went back inside his manor to the cheers and shouts of devoted friends.
Meris was waiting for him inside the entry hall. "Overdone," said the wild scout.
"Perhaps," allowed the Lord Singer. "It matters little when dealing with the sort of fools who make up frontier towns such as Quaervarr." He beckoned Meris with a wave and began walking toward his bedroom. "Walker escaped?"
"Yes."
"This upsets my plans," said Greyt. "But not irreparably. The trap failed?"
"Walker is formidable, but we had him. He only escaped with help."
"Who?" Greyt asked, though he had already guessed the answer.
"My cousin and her paramours," Meris spat. "She burst in and rescued him. Then her wretched lads covered their escape."
Greyt sighed. "Ah, Niece, Niece, you disappoint me. So obvious, so unsubtle, so… like a knight." He paused at the door to his bedroom. "I have a task for you, boy."
"I can hunt them both down tonight," offered Meris in a harsh whisper. "I need only half a dozen men-"
"No. Another task." Meris furrowed his brows in confusion and Greyt suppressed a smile. "That whore Clearwater is sending one of her lapdogs to warn Stonar of all this. The last thing we need now is our beloved Speaker returning at the head of an Argent Legion. Everything would come undone. Send your rangers into the woods-"
"Consider it done," said Meris. "I'll take care of it personally."
As soon as he realized it was still open, Greyt closed his mouth and regarded his son. That had been too easy, Meris's agreement too fast. Greyt searched the young wild scout's features, but the dusky face was unreadable. Neither could the Lord Singer read Meris's body language-except for the single hand on the sword hilt that spoke volumes.
"Yes," Greyt said, very softly. "And I promise, when you return, Walker and Arya will be yours. Just… do not delay. Silverymoon isn't a day away." The rhyme held none of its luster, and was a death sentence coming from the Lord Singer's lips.
Meris smiled but did not speak. With a curt nod, he turned and padded away.
Greyt watched him go. So Arya's tale had been true: Silverymoon was searching for lost couriers, and Meris was involved somehow. The Lord Singer wondered how this could have escaped his notice. This was a surprise, and nothing pleased Dharan Greyt less than surprises when he was not the one behind the mystery.
Greyt might have asked aloud, but he knew Talthaliel was already weighing this, having read Greyt's thoughts faster than the Lord Singer could have articulated them.
With a derisive whistle, Greyt decided to let the diviner puzzle over this dilemma. He had more important things to do, the first of which was keeping an appointment with his bed.