Ghostwalker by Erik Scott de Bie Page A

might not be able to speak. Pity, since he would have appreciated scouting before he walked into potential ambushes.
    Walker found a rear entrance, which was, of course, locked. Not a thief by trade, Walker had no skill in opening locks, but he had come prepared. Opening a belt pouch, he carefully extracted the contents—a small leather-wrapped bundle: a gift from Gylther’yel. Delicately, he unfolded the wrapping until an orange-red acorn stood out against the black leather of his glove.
    He pondered it for a moment—a beautiful piece of nature, to be used in such an unnatural thing as murder. Gylther’yel had taught him all his skills and abilities, true, but was his course in keeping with what she held sacred? The Ethereal was as much a part of the world as the physical, but was he going too far? Was his talent, his very existence, unnatural?
    For that matter, would that not make her unnatural as well?
    Again, Walker looked at Tarm but, as always, the spirit gave him no answers, merely the chance for Walker to ask questions of himself.
    Was Walker an abomination?
    After a moment, he found that he did not know and, when he was honest with himself, he found he did not much care. In a few days, it would no longer matter at all.
    Walker held the acorn against the lock and handle on the door. “Eat away the works of man,” he rasped quietly in Elvish.
    In response, the acorn shuddered and sank into the metal. Where it touched, ripples of red spread outward, rusting and corroding the lock and handle. The metal groaned in helpless protest, but the rust did its work.
    The handle was red dust before it hit the mud.
    The hinges creaked only slightly. He saw no guards or servants in the dark house. Walker calmly walked inside.
    His nonchalance was, of course, an act. Walker had to assume that Torlic was ready for him; his task was too important to risk carelessly.
    Walker heard a faint ringing, as of swords clashing far away, and he fell into readiness. The differences in Walker’s carriage were subtle, such that only a skilled swordsman could detect them; to the rest of the world, he remained relaxed.
    Walker found himself in a rear entry hall, with benches around the walls and hooks for cloaks and other garments. The place was sparse. There was little furniture to sit upon and the walls were stark. A few cloaks, mostly the black ones with the green lining of the Quaervarr guard, but that was it. The tapestries that usually adorned the homes of the wealthy were absent. Torlic’s home was simple, with small, uncomfortable rooms—that of a soldier.
    In the entrance room, Walker saw double doors leading deeper into the house and a pair of doors on either side. He explored the side doors first, opening them a crack to peer through. One led to a kitchen, the other to a storeroom, and neither was occupied. A pot sat over a long-cooled fire in the kitchen, and knives and small cleavers hung overhead where servants could reach them. Bundles—most likely containing bread and other slow-perishing items—sat on wooden shelves, untouched. There was a larder in the corner of the kitchen as well. The storeroom contained weapons, armor, saddles, and part of a wagon.
    The door to the main room beckoned and Walker answered the call. He listened at it briefly, long enough to ascertain that the noises of the swords were coming from behind it, and put his hand on the latch. Tarm fixed him with a supplicating gaze, as though begging him to turn back, but when Walker met those eyes, the spirit turned away and walked through the wall.
    Walker nodded.
    His father may never speak, but his guidance was still there.
     

     
    Greyt was startled as Meris stormed into his study, throwing the doors wide. He tore a black cloak from his shoulders.
    “Back so soon, son?” Greyt asked, looking up from the scroll upon which he was inscribing his latest ballad. Next to him rested some neglected correspondence he had meant to send to Stonar’s desk when he got