Arya suddenly felt cold. "The attack upon my person?" she said softly. "I never said I was attacked last night."
Greyt's eyebrow twitched but his smile was firm. "Unddreth must have reported it," he said dismissively. "I say, a Knight in Silver attacked in my own streets-"
"I haven't told anyone about last night," said Arya. "And I never mentioned Walker."
Greyt's smile slipped. The two were silent for a moment, Greyt staring at her with something that was not quite confusion. Then he stood, walked up, and loomed over her. Her anger gone, Arya trembled for a different reason entirely. Through discipline, she held her body firm, but she could do nothing about the emotion written in her eyes: fear.
She looked at Greyt for a long moment, and she saw nothing but cold, calculating anger in his face.
Then he moved, and Arya almost drew her sword. As though he did not see, Greyt continued his step to the sideboard and poured himself more wine.
"Are you sure I can't tempt you?" he asked, raising the glass. " 'Tis quite good."
"No," Arya said firmly.
"Pity." Greyt smiled a half grin but his eyes were smoldering. Then he shrugged. "Well, suit yourself." He went back to the chair and collapsed into the cushions. "I'm very tired, Niece, and feeling my age. You'll excuse me if I don't walk you out."
It was not a question.
Arya nodded, turned on her heel, and left the room as quickly as walking allowed. She could feel Greyt's eyes boring into her back the entire time.
As she left Greyt's study, Arya was not surprised to see Greyt's cruel-faced son leaning against the wall, bedecked in his white leather armor. She was not surprised that he had been listening.
Arya nodded to him, not about to say anything, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"You know him, this murderer," Meris said. "This… Walker."
"We have met," replied Arya. "Briefly. He saved me from a masked attacker."
"A great Knight in Silver needed saving?" asked Meris incredulously, snidely. "This attacker must have been quite skilled to defeat you."
He sounded just a bit too proud, and Arya couldn't resist the bait. "A coward," she corrected him. "A knave who attacked from the shadows, like a filthy rat."
The corner of Meris's mouth twitched but the wild scout said nothing.
Arya felt that twitch stoke her anger, which had already been smoldering, into a hot blaze. She stepped toward Meris, hand on her sword hilt. " 'Twas fortunate Walker appeared in time," she pressed. "He saved the coward from me."
Meris eyes narrowed, and he stared at her coldly. "I doubt it," he said, his tone betraying a seething outrage.
"Meris, come!" Greyt shouted from inside the study.
"Better not disobey," Arya said to him, refusing to blink.
"I'm not the one who should be obeying, lass," Meris almost spat.
Arya did not back down. "I do not fear you, cousin," she said. Then, leaving him with the implicit challenge, she turned and walked away.
Meris allowed the tiniest of smiles to creep onto his face. "I doubt that also," Arya heard him whisper. "I doubt that very much."
"Now!" came Greyt's shout.
Meris turned and entered the study, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.
Greyt was standing in front of the desk, awaiting him. Books on high shelves surrounded the Lord Singer, and he was holding one in his hand, idly scanning through the lines of text.
"Father," greeted Meris as he walked up to the Lord Singer.
Greyt greeted the dusky-skinned youth with a vicious slap to the cheek. Meris reeled, stunned, and looked back up at his father in shock.
"You lazy, incompetent fool!" Greyt shouted. "Your lax patrolling of the Moonwood has jeopardized our plans!" He slapped the book against the wall, and the pages fluttered all around.
"Really, Father…" Meris started.
"And now, right when opportunity knocks, when Stonar-" The words dissolved into a snarl, and he glared at Meris. "How can you be such an idiot, to attack her in the very street? Have I not done enough for you? I've turned a blind eye to your indiscretions for years, even ignored the untimely deaths of your siblings. Of all my blood, you were the only one worthy of my legacy, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?"
"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.