Arya opened her mouth to speak, but the doors slammed open and a white-garbed young man walked through the portal. A naked sword was in his hands.

Bars and Derst leaped to their feet, the roguish knight's hand going to a belt dagger, but Arya stopped them with a raised hand. The dusky-skinned man was also carrying a kerchief. He paused and his stance shifted to a defensive posture, from which he eyed the two men.

"Ah, Meris," Lord Greyt said from the couch. "Allow me to introduce my niece, Lady Arya Venkyr of Everlund. And, ah-well, her companions." He gestured to the dark-haired man. "My son-your step-cousin-Meris Wayfarer."

Arya noted the strange surname. Meris was not a legitimate son.

Meris sniffed, measuring and dismissing the two knights in a glance, then shifted his gaze to Arya. There his eyes stopped and rested. Taking his sword in one hand, he knelt and took her hand. "Charmed, cousin," he said. He kissed the back of her hand, and when his eyes met hers, they smoldered. "Passionately charmed."

Bars took a step forward, but Derst caught his shoulder and stopped him.

Arya bowed to Meris and turned her attention back to Greyt. Seeing her lack of interest, Meris's smile fell into an irritated frown. He slunk back and threw himself onto the couch opposite Greyt, where he drew a whetstone across his blade with a scraping snicker. The tone of the meeting changed entirely because of that little sound.

"But you were beginning your tale," Greyt said. "Please, do go on."

The doors swung open again and this time the gaunt steward Claudir glided in. "Lord Greyt, sir," Claudir said in his haughty tin voice. He stretched out the last word.

"What is it now?" Greyt snapped. He almost splashed wine on his leather-wrapped couch as he waved in annoyance.

"There appears to be a visitor at your door who will not identify himself and who says little." The steward sniffed. "Much of Quaervarr has turned out to see him and appears stricken dumb. Will you see him, my lord?"

Arya furrowed her brow, and she reached for the sword at her hip but did not draw it. Her companions had risen as well. Meris was oblivious, still sharpening his sword.

Greyt rolled his eyes and rubbed at his temples. "Must I be saddled with unceasing interruptions?" he asked with venom. "Meris, go see who in the Hells is stirring up trouble out there, won't you?"

Frowning, the dusky scout got to his feet, his sword still out. As he followed the steward out, he let it slide back into his scabbard with a clink of steel. The doors closed behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Greyt's gracious manner returned, along with his grin. "Pardon my outburst, Niece," he said. "As the lor-er, hero of Quaervarr, I'm constantly dealing with these odd occurrences, which always seem to occur at the least convenient of times. Ah, the perils of living on the frontier. The wild can cause a man to… crack, as it were. I'm sure our visitor is just another crazed ranger, mad youth, or broken adventurer. Pay it no mind."

"Aren't you a bit concerned, Uncle?" Arya asked, shifting uncertainly. "The Cult of the Black Blood is rebuilding, according to the rumors my father has heard at court. Could this not be one of their men? Or perhaps even their leader, this-"

"Jarthon," Greyt said. "And no. I doubt even the People of the Black Blood would be so stupid as to attack in public. The Beast Lord's foul spawn seem to have left us for good." He shuddered but quickly composed himself. He sank back into the couch and swirled his wine. "But, if, as I hope, some triviality will not interrupt us again, do continue your tale."

Perturbed but determined not to show it, Arya kept the false smile on her face-even as it pained her-and took a sip of her wine.

Meris suppressed a sigh of disgust as he followed Claudir through the halls of Greyt's manor. Hunting trophies, tapestries, statues, and treasures-from adventuring, supposedly-adorned the place, gaudy and mostly fake. Meris could tell at a glance.

The old man's power and charm impressed him, but he did not allow it to reduce him to a simpering moron like the rest of the people of Quaervarr. He could see right through the old Singer, with the penetrating eye only a wayward son can acquire.

Meris was always honest with those around him-he didn't put on a pleasant face or a charming facade to impress the pitiful fools who surrounded him.

Still, Meris respected the old man's success, a success won through deceit and charisma. And he did like the Greyt fortune. Besides, as much as it pained him to admit it, he held a sort of subtle tolerance of his aging father. Perhaps it was because he could see so many similarities between Dharan Greyt and himself.

Claudir reached the front door and opened it for him. Hand on his sword hilt-a comfort to him-Meris stepped out into the sun.

Or, at least, what should have been sun.

Meris blinked, but not from the dazzling light. Instead, the sun and clearing skies he had seen not long ago had hidden behind dark, foreboding clouds. Lightning split the black haze and thunder growled. From what curse had this storm come? Magic, mayhap. Meris detested magic.

Then he caught sight of a lone black figure staring at him from behind a high collar that was laced over his mouth and nose, concealing his face. The man stood in the main road before the Greyt family manor. Meris felt colder upon seeing the dark figure, but the tingle creeping down his spine only ignited a flare of anger. Rain poured down.

"You there," Meris called. In the near silence after the thunder's clap, it sounded like an ear-splitting shout.

If the man heard, he gave no sign. He merely held out a dark bundle and allowed it to fall from his hands onto the muddy ground.

Meris was already walking toward him, sword ready to be drawn.

The dark figure turned and walked away.

"Wait," Meris called. "Stand and face me, boy!"

The figure continued to walk away.

Rushing after him, Meris vaulted the plain wood fence, but the man was already half a block away. When he came down, landing smoothly on his feet, mud splattered up, staining his snowy cloak. He paid it no mind. Neither did he stoop to see the package the man had left.

"Coward!" he called as he ran.

Meris was almost on top of him when the silent figure ducked into an alleyway, one Meris knew ended in a wall. The white-clad scout jumped after him, but when he entered the darkened alley, there was nothing to be seen. The shadows of the two thatch-covered houses were deep, but they hid nothing but air. The man had vanished.

With a frustrated curse, Meris furrowed his brow and sniffed at the air. He didn't smell the usual scent of ozone or feel the pressure change that usually indicated magic had been spent, but the storm might be the reason. Meris cursed the strange weather but did not let it distract him from his search. Still, the falling water had done its work. He looked for tracks in the muddy ground and found none-had the man left any, they must have been washed away in the storm. There was no trace of even a horse's passing, much less a man's presence.

The man in black had simply vanished, as though he'd melted into the shadows, or had never been there in the first place.

But Meris knew it hadn't been an illusion or a dream. The man in black had been real, was real. Meris did not remember ever feeling so cold, so hateful when he had looked upon anyone, and yet something was familiar about that haunted gaze, that thin posture…

Ignoring the crowd that had formed around him in the street, Meris started back to Greyt's manor.