The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  For safety ends at twilight’s close-

  And darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

  —"The Legend of Nightfall"

  Nursery rhyme, st. 6

  Nightfall awakened to a dull background of aches that gradually settled into his right thigh and left hand. Someone stroked his hair with a tender concern almost as familiar as the accompanying pain. Memory told him what had to come next: his mother’s flurry of teary apologies, the earnest promises that she would never strike her child again, the declarations of love and concern, vows that lasted only until her next frustration drove her to batter him again.

  Nightfall curled his consciousness inward, gathering strength to fight the pain. He blundered toward understanding. Someone’s close enough to touch me. The next thought followed naturally. Someone’s close enough to kill me. It had become habit for Nightfall to awaken without fanfare. He had trained himself to lie as still upon waking as he did asleep, to breathe in slow, deep, regular patterns. He had studied awakenings until he had learned the most subtle cues, then he had practiced discarding them until the procedure had become ingrained. Now he had to assume he had awakened with his usual caution because the other’s gentle fingers continued brushing strands of hair from his brow.

  Under other circumstances, Nightfall might have taken the time he needed to orient himself, using feel and sound to determine time, place, and which persona he needed to play. But a person within striking distance was an immediate threat. The fact that the contact was sympathetic meant nothing to Nightfall; it was those who had touched him most tenderly in the past who had hurt him the worst.

  Without so much as a warning tense, Nightfall sprang away and into a crouch, facing the place where he had lain. The abrupt movement flashed pain through his strained ribs and gashed thigh, spinning a collage of pin-point lights across his vision.

  "Sudian, you’re all right now."

  A buzzing in Nightfall’s ears obscured the voice, and his sight faded to a uniform, gray curtain through which he could glimpse only a broad shadow. Still, only one person addressed him by that name and in that manner. "Master?” he tried, the word emerging in a croak. His mouth felt parched and sticky. "You’re well?" The quiet vigil of the oath-bond confirmed the observation. Still, desperation tinged the question. With his soul linked to the prince’s life, Nightfall could not afford to take such a thing for granted.

  "Me? You’re still worried about me‘?" Prince Edward approached cautiously, something dangling from his hand.

  As Nightfall remained still, the haze obscuring his vision resolved slowly, revealing Edward in travel linens. Though not clean, they lacked holes and bloodstains. He held a waterskin. Behind him rose a wall of tall, thin-trunked evergreens, bare almost to their tops where a cluster of needles formed a green ceiling. Nearby, the horses grazed a copse of thistles and berries. A fire crackled within a circle of stones, the bright reflection of its flames dancing across the spade and a single, opened pack.

  Realizing Edward had never actually answered his question, Nightfall pressed. "Are you well, Master?"

  Prince Edward stood directly in front of Nightfall. He passed the waterskin. "Here, drink as much as you can. You lost a lot of blood before you got your hand bandaged. I’m afraid you lost a lot more when I pulled that piece of wood out of your leg."

  Thirstier than ever before in his life, Nightfall took the waterskin and gulped down a swallow. His mouth had dried to the point where the water seemed to burn his throat, and it tasted thick and dirty. Still, his body craved liquids enough to overcome the discomfort. He drank for a long time.

  Once he had his squire drinking, the prince addressed his question. "I’m fine, because of you. You saved my life, Sudian." He reached toward Nightfall’s shoulder.

  Instinctively, Nightfall flinched away, spilling water down his chin.

  Apparently attributing Nightfall’s caution to his recent injuries, Prince Edward returned his hand to his side and let the incident rest.

  Nightfall felt the need to break the silence; but never having rescued another person from death before, he did not know what to say. To emphasize his own heroics seemed tasteless and unnecessary, but to downplay his accomplishment might belittle the prince’s life. Then, aware he had hesitated too long in consideration, he ran with his own confusion. "Of course, Master. It’s my job."

  Edward mirrored Nightfall’s bewilderment. "It’s your job to die saving me?"

  "If necessary." Nightfall sipped more slowly, the skin nearly emptied.

  "Who told you that? My father?"

  And his murdering bastard of a sorcerer, yes. Nightfall hesitated, weakness dulling his usually quick wit.

  One of the horses snorted, flinging its tail in circles. A songbird flitted from a treetop, shaking free a shower of needles.

  Edward did not wait for an answer. “I’ve had a long string of governesses, stewards, and guardians, not one of whom would have placed himself between me and an inchworm."

  Nightfall put the waterskin aside, examining his bandages. Someone, presumably Edward, had replaced the hastily applied rag on his hand with a neatly wrapped and tied cloth. Another bandage wrapped his thigh, darkened by a patch of old blood. His fingers felt stiff and unresponsive. Fear nearly paralyzed him. Two of his personae, polio-stricken Frihiat and plow-injured Telwinar, had required him to feign being crippled; but the split-second timing of Nightfall’s escapes already strained his abilities to their limits. Without the use of a hand, he felt as clumsy as a half-grown adolescent, and his survival had depended too many times on his reflexes for him to believe he would last long one-handed.

  Oblivious to Nightfall’s concerns, Edward continued on the same track. "You know, my father will pay you whether or not you risk yourself for me.”

  The prince’s words pounded the last blow in a long string of annoyances and insults. Nightfall had always considered himself independent, yet the realization that he had lost the widespread and myriad contacts he had established through years of effort frustrated him. The oath-bond trembled within him, a mockery of the pains that ached through him because of its presence. And he might well lose the use of his hand. Though the least of his problems, Nightfall lashed out at the thing that had thrown him over the edge. He twisted his face into a parody of deep, emotional hurt, a raw-edged expression approaching tears. “Master," he said almost inaudibly. "Your father is paying me nothing.” Rising, Nightfall limped toward the fire and sat with his back to the prince, but not before he saw a wide-eyed look of sympathy and self-hatred form on the prince’s features.

  Guilt tingled at the edges of Nightfall’s conscience. Unaccustomed to the emotion, he cast it aside; but the dismissal proved harder than he expected. For all the times he had dallied with men’s lives, he had less experience with manipulating emotions other than hatred and fear. The image of the prince’s face remained in his mind’s eye.

  "Sudian, I’m sorry." Prince Edward drew up beside his squire, his familiar, commanding tone gone.

  Nightfall said nothing. He stared into the fire, fixating on mourning the destruction of his information net. He felt more alone than he had since the day his mother died, though that loss had filled him with the same mixture of grief and guilt. Only the day before, he had prayed to the sisters of the sunrise to take his mother’s life; and, with the faith in magical thoughts that only a child could grasp, he held himself to blame as much as the client who had dealt the fatal blow. Grief and love had warred with shameful relief. He had cried, yet something deep within him had rejoiced, and that thing his mother would have called "the demon’s influence" had become the center of his existence. His remorseless killings and thefts had proved him as evil as he believed himself to be, delved him into a cycle that ended with Kelryn, then began again with her betrayal.

  Prince Edward shifted closer, glancing about as if afraid to be caught talking poignant issues with a servant. “Sudian, I, of all people, shouldn’t have said that, I who also swore to champio
n a cause and hold it above life itself, I get so ill hearing people dream with their mouths instead of their hearts, listening to them talk about what should be done instead of acting to fix the problem. I’ve tried my best to act when the opportunity presented itself and to prod my father and brother to do the same." He lowered a hand to Nightfall’s shoulder, and this time the squire managed not to pull away. "Sudian, your loyalty is not just appreciated, it’s the most noble act I’ve ever seen. I guess I just couldn’t fathom that kind of dedication to me."

  The prince’s grip felt warm and rock steady. Nightfall’s annoyance slipped away, replaced by an almost unsuppressible urge to laugh. His naive optimism is nearly as touching as it is amusing. Seizing the opportunity to test his earlier theory about King Rikard wanting his younger son dead, as well as to lock in Edward’s trust, Nightfall questioned while the prince’s guard was down. “But, Master, you’re so ideal. Surely, I’m not the first to see how much the world needs you. And your father must be proud of all you’ve championed.”

  Prince Edward’s fingers flexed, indenting Nightfall’s sleeve. "My father is a good man, but affairs of court keep him too busy to help the downtrodden."

  "A pity, Master." Nightfall’s pain had not dulled, but it had become familiar enough for him to think more clearly. He swerved with the prince’s verbal dodge, restoring proper theme to the conversation. "All the more reason why he must cherish your struggle for causes he has no time to handle."

  Again, Edward’s grip tightened, gouging linen deeper into Nightfall’s flesh.

  The persistent weight of the prince’s arm, as well as the tenseness of his hold, numbed Nightfall’s wounded hand. He appreciated the lessening of the agony, but it frightened him as well. Pain, he understood. The fuzzy tingle fluttering through his fingers unnerved him, reminding him of the possible permanence of this injury. Nerve damage healed so slowly he might die of old age before his hand functioned properly again.

  Apparently realizing the intensity of his grasp had gone way beyond comforting, Edward released his hold and turned away. "One day," he said, so softly Nightfall suspected he spoke to himself rather than his squire. "One day, human suffering will take precedence over politics." He whirled suddenly, confidence fully restored. "Sudian, we need to talk about strategy."

  The abrupt change in topic and manner left Nightfall momentarily speechless. Clearly, the conversation had closed, and no nudges or twists would divert it back this time. "Strategy, Master?" Suddenly, the fog that accompanied blood loss and pain lifted enough to reveal memory of the moments before Nightfall had lost consciousness in Nemix. "Are we being followed?" He sprang to his feet, forgetting his injured leg until it seemed to suck all the sensation from his body and channel it into jabbing agony. He winced, waiting for the pain to fade back to baseline, along with the ringing void that temporarily shrouded his mind again.

  "Careful, Sudian." Prince Edward flinched in sympathy, his warning senseless after the act. "And, no. I don’t think anyone followed us. I ran, as you insisted, though I did leave ten silvers. I’m embarrassed that we had a hand in ruining that inn. The owner deserved restitution, and there’s blood price to take care of for the dead."

  The blood of that human crud was more valuable splattered on the roadway than in their worthless bodies. Nemix should have paid us. And restitution? For what? Grittmon’s attempt to slaughter us? Nightfall stared. "Master, the owner was the man flinging daggers at us." It occurred to him then that pursuit was unlikely. Grittmon’s bribes kept the constabulary out of the affairs of his tavern. He had paid for their blindness and deafness, not for their support. For all that the criminals had wanted Sudian dead, they had failed the job in numbers and on their own territory. There, they could claim accident. On international ground, the murder of a prince and his squire would not go unexplored nor unpunished, a price too high to pay for the life of a servant who had only sought information.

  “And why was the owner throwing daggers?"

  Nightfall continued to study the prince’s face, as if to read the insanity nestled behind features that seemed as unrealistically beautiful and innocent as his nature. Even the fading whip mark scarcely marred the perfection of a countenance as rare and noble as his station. Because he wanted to kill us, you blitheringly ignorant pretty-boy. And you gave our money to the first thief who notices it lying there. Nightfall searched for a respectful reply, analyzing tone to decide whether the prince expected a specific response or demanded an answer because he could not guess the truth.

  As time passed in silence, Edward’s eyes widened. He flexed his hands impatiently.

  Clearly, Prince Edward had not meant for the query to remain rhetorical, yet Nightfall could think of no comment that would not sound sarcastic or disrespectful. He searched for a simple lie.

  "Sudian, why did we get attacked? Did you do or say something to instigate it?"

  Nightfall adopted the most stricken look he could muster, which proved easy under the circumstances. "Certainly not, Master. I ate in silence. I got up to relieve myself, and I accidentally got caught in the middle of their fight. I had a choice: defend myself or die." He rolled his gaze to Edward, feigning desperation. "I’m no use to you dead from another man’s argument?

  “Nor dead from a dagger thrown at me. Nor dead from my own sword stroke."

  "To die for you, Master, would be an honor. Nothing could please me, or the holy Father, more." Nightfall managed to meet Prince Edward’s eyes and stomach the falseness of his own words. The oath-bond receded to a distant tingle, all but intangible for the first time since its casting.

  Tears blurred Edward’s eyes to blue puddles of joy. For once, he had won the devotion and pride his father had never given, the same that Nightfall had sought from the seven sisters as a child but found only in the gentle words of a friend named Dyfrin.

  Though the magic went dormant, guilt hurt nearly as much as Nightfall’s wounds.

  As the day wore on, Prince Edward’s sentiment gave way to a lecture that seemed endless. ". . . and you never hurl weapons in the direction of your allies. In the tavern, we both got lucky . . ."

  I could have hit that thug in my sleep. You were never in any danger from me.

  ". . . A shouted warning would have alerted me to trouble without the risk of stabbing me instead of my enemy . . ."

  And left you dead and my soul enslaved to your father’s sorcerer.

  ". . . As to diving between my sword and an opponent ..." From dawn until dusk, Prince Edward Nargol enlightened his squire with details and rules of strategy, frequently dismounting to sketch the battle techniques of past generals in the dirt.

  Nightfall listened closely enough to nod or grunt in the appropriate places; but, as specifics gave way to history and universality, little made sense to him. The prince’s voice became a drone that aided sleep and not much else. It occurred to Nightfall to question why, if these tacticians knew so much about battle, they were all dead; but he wisely held his tongue. The easy pace gave him the chance he needed to keep the healing wound in his leg well-stretched and free of binding scar. A recognizable limp, like a missing limb or permanent facial deformity, would steal all opportunity for competent disguises.

  The ride to Delfor stretched into a two week crawl that kept the horses well-rested. The whetted edge of Grittmon’s dagger had left a straight, clean injury. The edges approximated well, without jagged skin flaps, excessive healing tissue, or infection. Nightfall had hints that coordination and feeling might gradually return to his hand by the time he and the prince reached the familiar checkerboard of corn and hay that defined the outskirts of the village of Delfor. Each year, the farmers reversed which fields grew which crop, always staying with the fodder expected by its animal-raising neighbors. The two crops complemented one another perfectly, each restoring the nutrients that the other claimed from the soil. Nightfall had learned this tenet well as Telwinar, a gentle but reclusive Delforian farmer. In the spring, he tilled and planted. He plied
his other personae and skills through the winter and the growing season. In the fall, he returned for harvest.

  This year, Telwinar’s fields would lie fallow as he disappeared, along with Nightfall’s other identities. Within days, the other farmers would notice the lapse. The over-lord would pronounce him dead, and his five fields would be distributed to neighbors or assigned to someone new. His few valuables would find their way into the over-lord’s coffers. Nearby farmers would claim his horses and equipment. Thieves would acquire the rest.

  Nightfall smiled, certain he would miss none of it. He recalled the ceaseless beat of the sun, drying his skin to leather, the daily grind of hitching and driving horses, the tedium of scything hay and plucking corn ears, the ache of his muscles after a day of steadying the plow. Yet with the other memories came the crisp, earthy perfume of soil I freshly tilled, a golden wave of wind-bowed stalks heavy with corn, and the sense of accomplishment that could not help blossoming into pride when the yield lay heaped in wagons for export. Of which Telwinar got to keep only enough for the next year’s seed and sustenance, alive in body, if not in soul, until the coming year. The land, the crop, and the money from its sales belonged, as always, to the overlord.

  The thought steered Nightfall’s mind to the more pressing matter of the oath-bond. The land belongs to the over-lord. Or to the king. He considered. Overlord Pritikis had inherited his holdings from his father, now dead. Other farmers toiled for different landowners: barons, knights, and princes. So where did they get their land? It seemed a simple question yet one Nightfall had never considered. He had worked only toward his own survival. Money and anonymity had pleased him well enough; and he had used his various personae to escape, rather than enhance, his notoriety. Only titled gentry, he knew, could own land at all, and the prospect of courting favor from the silk-swathed snobbery had never interested him. Now the question of process became all-consuming. At least Ned comes with his own title. One less tedious detail I have to deal with.