The words chilled Nightfall, all the more effective for their deadpan delivery and timing that made it seem as if Gilleran had read his mind. "I need time to think."
"Very well," the king said. "I’ll give you time. You have until I count to twenty." He took a deep breath. "One. Two . . ."
Sighing, Nightfall let King Rikard’s words disappear into the rhythms of his thoughts. He had become too dedicated to survival to choose death over life, no matter how conditional.
". . . Five. Six . . ."
Rising, Nightfall approached the bars. "What do I have to do?"
Chapter 3
When shadows fall and sunlight breaks,
What Nightfall touches, Nightfall takes.
Lives and silver, maids in bows-
Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
—"The Legend of Nightfall"
Nursery rhyme, st. 3
A week after its casting, the oath-bond still tingled through Nightfall like blood flow returning to an awakening limb, the feeling a constant, nagging reminder of its presence. Alone in a room in Alyndar’s castle, he perched on a wooden chair, studying his distantly familiar face in the mirror. A series of scouring baths had removed the grime and dyes that had become a constant feature of so many of his personae. The ever-present beard was gone, his hair trimmed into a fashionably short style. The soft, thick locks glistened mahogany brown, wound through with reddish highlights, so different from Nightfall’s black curls, Marak’s dark tangles and Frihiat’s bleached curtain, a color Nightfall had not seen since his childhood. The olive skin tones were replaced by his natural, fair coloring. The missing scraggle of beard revealed a strong chin, and the unkempt froth of head and facial hair no longer hid his straight nose and ears. The painted scars that distinguished his various characters had washed away, leaving a face without Balshaz’s pocks, the slashes from Telwinar’s plowing accident, or Nightfall’s crisscross of ancient dagger wounds that made him look so frightening.
Even Nightfall’s body seemed different. He had never worn a country’s colors before, and the royal purple and silver of Alyndar’s tabard gave him a regal air that seemed horribly misplaced. Without padding and a wicked aura of confidence, he had lost Nightfall’s imposing build. Telwinar’s limp had disappeared, and playing polio-stricken Frihiat had required a hundred masterfully twisted performances. Though accustomed to a myriad of different appearances, Nightfall found the reality of Sudian Nomansson more striking and frightening than any alias. Without the scars, squints, affectations, and beard, he looked a decade younger than his thirty-four years and as frail as the mother who had borne him. Stunted by starvation in his youth, he stood a hand’s breadth shorter than most men and never seemed to eat enough to pack weight onto his narrow frame. Long, silent stalks, chases, and escapes had endowed him with quickness and agility, but his mass—shifting skill had obviated the need for bulk.
Only Nightfall’s eyes seemed familiar to him. Feigned drooping lids, roving irises, and shaven lashes had not changed their color nor the striking resemblance to his mother’s own. Crowded by sodden tangles of hair and a coiled, filthy beard, they had appeared more black. Now, the openness of his face and the pallor of his skin accentuated their deep blue, lending him a dashing innocence that inspired a chuckle of amusement. Even my old friend, Dyfrin, would never recognize me. Thoughts of the sandy-haired father-figure turned Nightfall’s laugh into a smile. He could not help but consider the advice Dyfrin would have given him now:
"Don’t think of it as doing the king a favor; he’s done you one. By removing your identity, he’s removed all your enemies. He’s given you a chance at a new life and a noble cause."
A noble cause, indeed. Using my knowledge and experience to keep a spoiled fool alive. Faking loyalty to a child pampered and admired for no better reason than his parentage and with no understanding of human nature or the real world. Nightfall sighed, the grin disappearing into a wash of bitterness. It bothered him to have a hand in gaining power for another noble ignorant of his followers needs, a leader who tended to politics and power while his peasants suffered from hunger, disease, and violence. And, to Nightfall, Prince Edward seemed the worst kind of ruler, a crusader who championed causes he did not and could never understand in ways that accomplished nothing but death and an earful of moralistic raving.
A week trapped in a castle room and daily sessions with Chancellor Gilleran, during which he learned general servant behavior, had left Nightfall anxious to leave Alyndar despite the persistent pain of fading bruises and broken ribs only partially healed. He kept his weight low to assist the healing process and resisted the urge to unlock the door and escape. The warning jangle of the oath-bond made him certain he would not get far. Although temporary freedom, such as a nightly study of the castle hallways, would gain him information about its layout and, perhaps, its rashly impulsive prince, it did not seem worth the risk. Hampered by mending wounds and ignorance, he dared not chance an encounter with Alyndar’s guardsmen now, in Sudian guise. Cooperation, or at least its appearance, might gain him freedom. Causing trouble or mining his disguise would seal his death.
Nightfall glanced away from the mirror, turning his attention to the now-familiar furnishings. A simple, wooden table supported the mirror. A stiff-bristled brush, a square hand mirror the size of his palm, and a bowl of water lay on the table’s flat surface. A straw pallet filled one corner of the room, draped with a blanket. Nightfall’s seat was the only other piece of furniture.
A key rattled in the door lock in a pattern Nightfall recognized: left, right, left, followed by a click as the tumblers fell into place. Gilleran. No one else had entered Nightfall’s room since they had moved him from the dungeon after a private “execution" attended only by the king and his chancellor. Nevertheless, he scrutinized every sound, identifying patterns. Once certain of the other’s identity, he rose, back-stepped, and lowered his center of gravity. The oath—bond would keep him from harming the sorcerer, but he still felt more comfortable in a fighting posture.
The door swung open. Gilleran slipped inside, then closed the panel behind him. He wore tailored silks in royal colors more vivid than Nightfall’s linens, and he carried a staff decorated from head to base with carven fists. His frigid stare went straight to Nightfall, and a slight smile stirred the corners of his lips. "Prepared for another lesson?"
Nightfall did not trust any of the customs Gilleran had taught; though, so far, they seemed logical. The sorcerer had every reason to sabotage his education. "What I’m prepared to do is leave. I’ve wasted a week of my five months already."
"Ah." Gilleran slumped onto the chair, glancing at his own innocuous features in the mirror. "Impatience has killed many men."
"So have I." Nightfall remained in position. "But some things can’t be avoided." He spoke with casual simplicity, but he doubted Gilleran missed the underlying threat.
Gilleran loosed a grunt that might pass for laughter. He spun the staff, letting it strike his opposite palm. "Avoided, maybe not. But detained . . . ?" He grinned openly, not bothering to finish.
The comment only emphasized what Nightfall had already surmised, that Gilleran wished to delay the task as long as possible in order to increase the chance of failure. The urge seized him to methodically slice the grin from Gilleran’s face, but the first spark of such thought tightened the oath-bond like a vise. Air seemed to leave the room, and pressure crushed in on him from every side. He dropped the image before the sensation could intensify from discomfort to pain, and he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. The poke of healing ribs into his lung seemed accustomed and natural in the wake of the oath—bond’s warning.
Gilleran studied Nightfall’s silence, demanding no response before speaking again. “We can’t send you off injured. It’d be cruel. You’re still hurting." Suddenly, he swung the staff for Nightfall`s chest.
Nightfall caught the staff and ducked beneath the attack. He jerked the weapon from Gilleran’s hands,
instinctively gathering momentum for a return strike. The oath-bond caught him low, spearing, red-hot, through his belly. He collapsed, dropping the staff. Wood thunked to the floor, rolling with a hollow clamor that seemed end-less. Pain stole all thought of violence, then both waned to angry memory, leaving him only the background tingling of magic and the ache of old injuries incited by sudden motion and the fall. Nightfall staggered to an awkward crouch.
Gilleran retrieved his staff, deliberately stomping on Nightfall’s hand as he moved. "I’d delight in staying to talk, but I mustn’t be late for Edward’s farewell banquet. Of course, I’ll have to let King Rikard know the prince’s squire won’t be fit for travel for another month." He turned his back on Nightfall deliberately, as if goading an attack.
Nightfall ignored the challenge, rising with caution meant to appear cowed. His fingers throbbed, but he did not acknowledge the pain. He would not give Gilleran the satisfaction.
Alyndar’s banquet hall buzzed with conversation. Seated at the head table, King Rikard hid annoyance behind an expressionless mask. It would not do to display discomfort to a roomful of Alyndarian nobles and foreign dignitaries and ambassadors; but he could not keep his gaze from shifting repeatedly to the empty seat at his right hand. The guest of honor, Prince Edward Nargol, was inexcusably late to his own farewell celebration.
Flowers from the courtyard gardens decorated the seven tables in a rainbow of colors. Servants had twined them into vivid chains broken, at intervals, by clusters floating on silver bowls. Though striking, their varied perfumes paled beneath the rich aroma of roasted pork, beef, and pheasant. Over the last hour, Rikard had watched his guests’ moods pass from eager to curious to restlessly hungry. Irritation would have to follow, one that would not bode well for his future dealings with these people, whatever those might be.
King Rikard glanced to his left. Prince Leyne met his father’s gaze, one raised brow indicating a silent question propriety would not allow him to voice aloud. Rikard returned an equally subtle shrug. Edward’s delay would require a satisfactory explanation he knew, from experience, he was unlikely to get. Bothered by his current line of thought, Rikard concentrated on the competent routine of the `rest of his retinue. Guards ringed the periphery of the banquet hall, his personal half-dozen forming a rigid semicircle at a comfortable distance that left room for the serving staff. Servants scurried through the hall, tending pre-dinner needs and weathering the aggravation of nobles kept waiting inappropriately long. Though busy, they wasted no movements, their charges predetermined, their tasks shared without argument. He saw pattern to their every effort that defused some of the raw tension and reminded himself to discuss bonuses for every one with the chief organizer of kitchen help.
Across the hall, the double doors to the banquet hall slammed open. One panel clipped a passing serving boy, sprawling him. The goblet he carried rang against the boards, splashing a wild arc of wine across a tapestry. The guards nearest the door snapped to attention, glaives falling into position, hemming the entryway in case of danger. Caught off-guard, the guest-announcer skittered behind the guards, then craned his neck to identify the newcomer.
Rikard bit his lip and stifled his rage, knowing who had to stand behind any act of monumental embarrassment. He felt the reassuring pressure of a hand on his arm, and he appreciated his elder son’s perception and sympathy.
Younger Prince Edward Nargol stomped into the banquet hall, half-leading, half-dragging a middle-aged peasant in rags who seemed bewildered and more than a bit frightened. A troop of guards trailed him. Their varied constituency convinced Rikard they had joined him in singles and pairs over time, each trying to avert disaster in his own fashion. The king saw no sign of Edward’s steward. Either the long-legged prince had left Elfrit far behind or the attendant had quit like so many others.
The prince shoved through the crossed polearms, never losing his grip on the peasant’s sleeve. The sentries withdrew their weapons and stepped aside respectfully. "Prince Edward Nargol," the announcer called unnecessarily though Edward had already passed him. Rikard sighed and rose, considering the best way to alleviate the situation. Only his practiced composure rescued him from blinding fury.
All conversation ceased. Even the servants went still as Edward strode toward the head table, sweeping the ragged stranger through the aisles between tables. Rikard’s guards tightened toward their king, though surely their colleagues had already insured that no weapons would enter the banquet hall. Even Prince Edward’s authority and impetuousness could not have brooked this formality. Rikard waved his own sentries back. He would have preferred to speak with Edward alone, leaving the peasant with his guards, but the scene the younger prince might create if he tried did not seem worth the trouble. He trusted his instincts as a warrior, and those told him the stranger could cause him no harm even should he wish to attempt such a foolhardy and obviously suicidal action. Since no open food or dishes yet sat on the table, he did not need to fear poisoning either.
"Father," Edward called as he approached, strong voice booming over the hush.
Rikard kept his wince internal, waiting until the prince reached polite speaking distance before giving a soft but firm reply. "Edward, sit." He gestured to the chair to his right. A lecture and explanation would come only after the guests had food. He would not prolong their wait beyond the delay his errant son had already caused.
As usual, however, Edward would not let the matter drop. "Yes, Father, but not until a chair is brought for Dithrin." He back-slapped the shaggy peasant who looked greenish and shaky, as if he might vomit at any moment. Brown eyes dodged the king’s gaze and came to rest at his feet. The peasant bowed with an exuberance that nearly sent him crashing to the floor, and Edward’s sudden grip was all that saved him from collapse. "He’s an Alyndarian subject, and he’s hungry." Edward looked pained. "Father, there are hungry people under your rule."
Is this the first you realized that? Shocked by his son’s profound ignorance, Rikard turned his attention fully on Edward. More sheltered than even I thought. His arrangement with Nightfall pleased and pained him at once. Education and experience could only help Edward, yet he could not help feeling as if he were throwing a crippled lamb to the mercy of wolves. The stares of a hundred silent courtiers seemed to burn into his flesh, awaiting his next words; and the need to face such scrutiny made him certain. It changes him, or he dies. Either way, it improves the kingdom. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought. Hard as he tried, Rikard could not apply his usual ruthless justice to the situation. The features of the queen he had loved, so clear in Edward’s face, haunted him. Somehow, he felt as if she judged him from the holy Father’s paradise.
Dithrin’s demeanor relaxed slightly now that he no longer stood beneath the king’s scrutiny. Prince Edward seized on his father’s quiet. He glanced about, apparently for a servant. Finding none, he directed a guard instead. "Please fetch a chair. He can sit by my side."
"No," Rikard commanded.
The guard remained in place. A shiver racked Dithrin, and he trembled in anticipation.
Rikard continued, regaining command with an accustomed, quiet dignity. "Seat Dithrin at the seventh table." He pointed toward the gathering of non-titled folk, those of the lower class invited because of favors performed or distant ties of blood. "And feed him as any guest." He turned his attention to his younger son, temper trickling free of his control. Better to get the boy out of his sight than to risk a shouting match or loss of self-respect. "Ned, go to the tower chapel. We’ll talk." He jabbed a finger toward the exit, turning his back to make it clear he would hear no argument. He addressed a guard. “Tell the kitchen to start dinner. We’ll not wait for Prince Edward any longer."
The guard hurried off to relay his message to the proper servants. Dithrin scarcely waited for his escort, apparently eager to escape the thoughtful gazes and the presence of a king within his right to slay him for intruding. Prince Edward headed for the door, pausing only long enough to a
ssure himself that Dithrin was properly tended to before disappearing into the hallway. As the guests returned to their own conversations, Rikard gave one last, whispered command. "See to it Ned makes it to the chapel and causes no trouble along the way."
The guards who had accompanied Edward rushed to a task Rikard did not envy. The king glanced at his chancellor, who sat at Leyne’s left hand. Gilleran shrugged, then shook his head with an indulgence reserved for teenagers. The wordless communication brought the first stirrings of calm, restoring the composure Rikard would need to bring the visitors comfortably through a banquet interrupted by a family fight and an absent guest of honor. As usual, he appreciated the sorcerer’s presence; few gentry had served him better or longer. Their association had spanned enough years that Gilleran seemed not only a competent adviser with a broad perspective, but one able to anticipate the decisions and needs of his king as well.
The arrival of food preempted any need for King Rikard to announce excuses for the prince’s behavior. Disgruntled impatience turned to contented exuberance as servants piled plates with steaming vegetables and meat.
Rikard had only just taken his first mouthful when a servant addressed him from the place Edward would have occupied. Though so low no one else could hear, the voice startled the king. Apparently, the servant had been standing there for quite some time, waiting for the king to acknowledge his presence.
"Wine, Sire?”
King Rikard nodded without bothering to look. He heard the light splash of liquid filling his glass. Then the sound ended, but he still felt the man beside him. He took another mouthful of turnips, chewed, and swallowed. The servant remained in place, his patience or sluggishness becoming an annoyance. Rikard surmised that the servant could not have paused as long as it seemed, or his guards would have interfered. He turned his attention to the wine-server, his shrewd, brown eyes meeting blue ones so dark they bordered on black. He had seen the face twice, but once so different he would never have credited it to the same man had he not had a hand in the transformation. Surprise tightened every muscle, his mouth fell open, and his eyes widened.
The Legend of Nightfall Page 6