"Father!" Meris growled.

Greyt slapped him again. "How like an ignorant child you are! Incapable of controlling your own base desires. You sicken me."

Meris stared at his father in shock, then anger, and assumed a sullen expression. Though he was outwardly chastened, his rage burned. Meris's fingers itched to clasp his sword. He admired his father, true, but Greyt could not escape a measure of his contempt-probably as much contempt as Greyt felt for Meris in return.

Still, the wild scout stayed his hand, once again aware of that same nervous suspicion that had protected Greyt from his rage thus far. Meris never ignored this feeling, a sense that he was walking into a trap. There was something Greyt was hiding, some protection the Lord Singer kept hidden, and that dissuaded Meris from attacking him.

"Whatever I can do to make amends, Father," Meris said. "Merely speak the word, and it shall be done."

"Watch over the house of Bilgren tonight," Greyt said. "I fear he will be next to suffer Walker's ire. He is the last of the Raven Claw band, and that may be-"

"Except yourself," clarified Meris. When Greyt frowned, Meris reiterated it. "The last except yourself."

Greyt looked at him none-too-pleasantly. "Go to Bilgren and make him wary," he said. "I doubt even the barbarian's fanciful weapon-that gyrspike, or whatever it is-will be enough to save him. Protect him the night through, and prove yourself true."

Meris accepted the rhyme with a grimace.

"And continue the search for Stonar's supporters," said Greyt. "The druids are our enemies as is, I fear, that fool captain. As for the owners of local businesses, I want them persuaded to see my side of things or taken care of, understand?"

Meris nodded and frowned.

"What is it?" Greyt demanded. He drew himself up taller. "You have something to say?"

Meris stared at him angrily for a moment then looked away.

"I will not fail, Father." He turned on his heel and stalked out the doors of the study.

"See that you don't," Greyt growled.

The door slammed shut, and Greyt smiled authentically for the first time that day. It always pleased him when things turned out exactly as he wanted.

Business needed to be tended to, though. He allowed the elation of the last few moments to settle, then he set the glass on the sideboard and poured himself another. He slipped an amulet out of his tunic-a piece of amber in a rough ovoid shape-and rolled it between his fingers. The amulet was warm.

"You heard all that, I suppose?" he asked aloud.

"Of course, Lord Greyt," a disembodied voice said immediately. A gaunt form clad in a gray robe shimmered into being, shedding invisibility the way one slips out of a blanket. "All three interviews."

"And?" He did not look up but kept his eyes fixed on the amber gemstone.

"You acted more or less correctly," the cloaked man said. His voice was calm and level. Though magical power seemed to surround him like a corona, Greyt was not disturbed. "The Beast must be wary of the Spirit of Vengeance."

Greyt knew the cryptic names were references to Bilgren and Walker respectively. "And Arya?" Greyt asked.

"The Nightingale is suspicious," the wizard said. "She searches for the killer of the couriers, and she suspects that the Spirit of Vengeance might be that killer. She also suspects, however, that you might be that killer."

Greyt dismissed that with a snort. "But who is he?" asked the Lord Singer. "Don't play the mysterious cloaked figure with me-take off that cowl and tell me who he is!"

"Who?" the man asked as he pulled back his cowl. Beneath, the pale skin of a moon elf sparkled in the candlelight, and emerald eyes glittered.

Greyt rounded on the wizard. "You know very well 'who' I mean!" he shouted. "Who is Walker?"

The wizard spread his slim hands. "You have made many enemies in your travels, my lord," he said. "I know not who he is. Only that his vengeance is old."

Greyt was about to shout again, but he bit his tongue. "Talthaliel," he asked sweetly, running his finger along the amulet. "Why do I keep you around?"

"Because I am useful," the wizard replied matter-of-factly.

"You are," Greyt said. "And why are you useful?"

"I see many things," Talthaliel said.

"And how do I have power over you?"

"You have that," the diviner replied, nodding at the amber crystal on his necklace.

"Exactly," Greyt said. He clenched his fist around the gemstone.

"You may stop," Talthaliel said. "I shall do as you ask."

"That's better," Greyt said. "Now tell me who Walker is."

"I cannot," replied the diviner. "Powerful magic shields him, magic I cannot pierce. Not his own magic, but that of a protector. I can feel the other shielding him-a powerful, ghostly presence, but certainly alive."

"Then he is not a ghost," Greyt said.

Talthaliel shook his head. "A mortal man with magic on his side."

"You can tell me nothing else?" Greyt asked.

"Only that he can be killed, and the Wayfarer is eager to do so," Talthaliel said.

"You are maintaining the communication barrier around Quaervarr?"

"As you command," Talthaliel said, nodding. "Several attempts have been made to pierce my magic, but the druids do not approach my skill. Nor do they come to town often-there is little suspicion. None will hear of your activities to undermine the Lord Speaker."

"Still," Greyt said. "With some murderer killing people, questions will be asked. Someone could go to that trollop Clearwater and ask for a sending to Silverymoon or even Everlund-Unddreth already has, and I could only deflect him this once. If they realize that someone is keeping a barrier up, our plan would be ruined. You and I cannot battle the Argent Legions or a handful of the Spellguard from Silverymoon. The last thing we need right now, while Stonar is gone, is someone running for help."

Talthaliel said nothing.

"And my son," Greyt mused. "What of him? Will he fulfill the vision any time soon?"

"There is malice in his heart, but not in his mind… yet, at least," replied the seer. Greyt's expression became dubious. "My two-fold vision will hold true: Your son will come to kill you, and your son will not defeat me."

Greyt smiled. He so enjoyed knowing the future before his opponents did.

28 Tarsakh

Spirits of the dead ebbed and flowed around him, whispering of hunts long past and unfulfilled dreams, but Walker, as always, hardly listened. He sat legs crossed, staring into the blurry, bleak world of the spirits, and thought.

Two of his foes lay dead and two were alive. Indeed, the spirits of Drex and Torlic hovered around him, silently awaiting the completion of some unfinished business.

Walker's death had come at the ends of four weapons, and four hands had held those weapons.

At least, he thought so.

Dying had shattered his memories; he could remember hazy fragments about the murder and only flashes from before that. As far as Walker was concerned, his life began that night fifteen years ago. He fully remembered his attackers only when they spoke the words he could not forget, the words they had spoken that night long ago-

Instead of focusing fruitlessly on the past or on the future that inspired no interest, Walker thought about the present. Two men were dead and two were going to die. He knew Greyt was one of them, and he would soon know the other for certain. Drex had said Torlic's name, but the half-elf had not pointed him toward a third. Walker had to know, and he simply could not remember.

As though drawn to Walker's violent thoughts, Tarm appeared. His father had vanished before the fight with Torlic and had not reappeared since. Was he reproaching his son for his task of vengeance?