There were a few murmurs among the crowd refuting this. Some called for proof, others for motive.
Greyt had the perfect answer.
"She is a Malarite spy! See for yourselves!" With a flourish, he produced a small, carved claw on a leather thong, old bloodstains decorating its fingers. Startled cries ran through the crowd as many recognized the dreaded holy symbol of the beast god of the Black Blood. "This was found around Lady Venkyr's neck-it provides all the evidence we need, even if her damnable actions were not known!"
The crowd erupted in cries of terror and beseeching calls. They begged Greyt, their great champion, to defend them. A few even cried for Arya's death.
Walker gritted his teeth and tightened his grasp on the sword he held beneath his cloak. He had to exert all his terrible will to keep from striding forward to confront Greyt.
He caught a flash of a grin across Greyt's face, but no one else seemed to notice. "Fear not, friends of Quaervarr!" he called. "These vandals and thieves will not go free. The Ghost Murderer has already paid the penalty for his abominable crimes, but the traitor knights will also be punished. This eve, at sunset, the three shall hang in this very plaza, where all of you may bear witness to the consequences that await traitors and servants of darkness."
Silence gripped the plaza. Few remembered such brutal justice being meted out, even in this frontier town. Even those who had called out for executions were struck by the realization that it might actually happen. Then, slowly, several men in the crowd-men Greyt had planted, Walker thought-began to clap. The applause picked up, louder and louder, until cheers sounded from the crowd. In moments, the name of "Dharan Greyt" and "Quickfinger" were the dominant calls.
Walker had taken it all in stride, but he could listen no longer. Arya! The name resounded in his mind, followed by an image of the knight's face.
He could not allow this. This was wrong, and not only because the one he loved faced execution. This was wrong because three innocent people would pay for Greyt's crimes, three innocents who fought against those crimes. What was more, this monster undermined the town's stability-questioning its leaders and stirring up popular opinion against good, just people. More than just three knights would die in the chaos. Death was the only outcome of such madness.
Walker did not know where this sense of justice came from-perhaps from the same center that made him feel a twinge of sorrow over every man he killed unnecessarily, over every guard, every ranger, and every man or woman manipulated by the words or actions of one of the monsters he hated so much.
Feelings of justice, long forgotten and buried beneath years of pain, flooded back to him-values he must have held before his death at the hands of Greyt and his cruel fellows.
The spirit of Tarm knelt at Walker's side and grasped at his hand. Walker, surprised, looked at Tarm in shock. The spirit was trying to communicate with him, but Walker felt nothing but a long string of conflicting emotions from the spirit: joy, love, agitation, fear, and anger. Walker had never seen his father act this way and it caught him off guard.
Remembering the terrible purpose that had brought him here, Walker scowled.
"Why do you not speak to me, Tarm Thardeyn?" he demanded. "Are you not my father? Am I not your son? Speak to me!"
The spirit, shocked by the words, just stared, unmoving, and Walker felt nothing emanating from the spirit but sadness.
Then he heard another shout to the Lord Singer from the courtyard, followed by applause, and he turned to fix the hated Lord Greyt's features with his withering gaze. He felt the cold power of his ghostly rage beating within, waiting to take control.
Seething at the injustices perpetuated by Dharan Greyt, this hypocrite who so casually claimed the love and adoration of Quaervarr while he stabbed her people in the back, Walker made to step out into the open. He could picture the effect his appearance would have upon the assembled. The crowd would run in panic, scattering like flies before his cracked bellow of Greyt's name. Striding forward, sword pointed toward the Lord Singer, he would cut down any guardsmen who attacked him. He would swat aside the rangers like locusts. Even the towering Bilgren would fall under his blade. Finally, all his defenses gone, Greyt would cower, helpless before Walker and his sword-his avenging, just sword.
The Spirit of Vengeance would have his due.
That would have occurred, perhaps, except for the hand that reached out of the shadows of the alley behind him and cupped itself around his mouth.
Chased back into his manor by cheers, shouts, and tangible adoration, Dharan Greyt shook his fists in triumph even as he fought against the ironic laughter that threatened to bubble up out of his throat. Claudir was a silent, lingering specter at his side. Greyt clapped the steward on the back, nearly knocking him down, and took the bottle of elverquisst he offered. In his triumph, Greyt almost forgot how to operate the corkscrew.
The greatest performance of his life! They had drunk up every word, even without his enthralling magic! He had but to beam at them, and these foolish sheep adored him.
Never had the stakes been higher, but never had his accomplishments been greater. Greyt loved the gamble-the risk that the townsfolk would see through the web he had woven, or the intrigues that won him their hearts-but he loved winning it even more. Secretly, quietly, he had removed Stonar's greatest supporters. Captain Unddreth, Amra Clearwater, and several local businessmen had met with "accidents" or had mysteriously disappeared in the last few tendays.
Now he was in the perfect position to seize his heroic title, and he had done it-and with what form! If he wanted to rule the town, he had but to breathe the suggestion and they would crown him Lord of Quaervarr. If he wanted to sweep the Moonwood and dispose of whatever remained of that annoying Jarthon and the Black Blood once and for all, he had hundreds of willing suicide fighters. Even if he desired to march against Silverymoon, he had no doubt these poor commoners would bring out their hatchets and saws to aid his cause.
Lord Singer Dharan Greyt felt a warm swell in his chest. So this was how it felt to be a hero at last-he hardly even remembered all the men and women he had slain to make it this far. They did not matter, for they had made him! A noble sacrifice, indeed.
The farther he walked into his manor, though, the quicker the warm feeling faded, only to be replaced with a familiar lingering emptiness, the same feeling that had come upon him when Lyetha had denied his heroism, ironic as it was, and when Meris had…
Greyt growled to no one in particular. Was there no one who shared his vision of heroism? Would he be doomed to a lonely existence as a hero forever?
Well, Meris wasn't a concern any longer. Greyt could always have another son. How many women of Quaervarr were fighting over him even now?
He took a swig of the elverquisst and the hearty wine banished the feeling of emptiness in his stomach.
"So be it, then!" he shouted to no one in particular. He rubbed his gold ring. "If I must be a lone wolf, then so be it!"
The rangers outside his door cast quick glances as he came, then snapped back to attention. Any other day, their behavior might have struck Greyt as odd. At the moment though, still feeling enthusiasm pulse through his body, the Lord Singer thought nothing of it. He opened the door to his study, laughing at his own joke, and shuffled inside. Shutting the portal behind him, Greyt breathed a great sigh then turned toward his desk with a smile.