The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  While Nightfall worked, the overlord’s men apologized to Prince Edward repeatedly; he counted fifteen times at least. The explanation followed, "Lord, since the Healer’s come, their numbers have gotten out of hand. None of them’s got enough money to pay for the cure, even if it’d work. Genevra only can handle injuries, not diseases or faults at birth or stuff missing or whatnot. But you can’t tell them what expects miracles nothing."

  Nightfall had packed the longest-keeping rations toward the back, and he discovered a couple week’s worth of hard bread, cheese, and jerked pork still well-wrapped. The remainder of the food was a loss, and the vast majority of crockery lay shattered on the path. Shifting the hole closed, he retied the pack.

  ". . . didn’t realize things had gone this far. Usually, they’re spread all over town. They don’t seem like quite so many then. They’ve never done this before."

  Nightfall believed the guardsmen. If the beggars routinely caused damage like this, he suspected the overlord would have rounded them up and killed or expelled them by now. At the least, the sentries at the edge of town would have provided Prince Edward an escort. Surely, they never expected him to indiscriminately hand silver to beggars. Nightfall shook his head, blaming pain for his own incaution. Even I didn’t think him stupid enough to dangle steak in front of starving wolves. His lapse bothered him. A passion to champion those in need, a rabble of the Peninsula’s scummiest, and a prince with no idea of the value of money or the desperation hunger breeds. What else should I have expected?

  The guards continued, now escorting Prince Edward toward the inn. "We’re really very sorry, young Prince. Of course, your stay and food at the inn are on us. And your squire’s healing is free. Are you sure you’re not hurt, lord?"

  Finally, the guards paused long enough to allow the prince to answer. "I’m fine," he said. "No harm done."

  No harm done! Just two weeks of food left, four silver to our name, and a bleeding squire. Nightfall seized the tow rope of the packhorse and the white’s reins, limping in the bay mare’s wake.

  Chapter 7

  Razor claws and fiery eyes,

  Leathern wings to cleave the skies.

  His soul within stark midnight froze-

  Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

  —"The Legend of Nightfall"

  Nursery rhyme, st. 7

  The familiar coarse wood construction of Delfor’s common room soothed Nightfall after the beggars’ antics in the streets. The inn had become a staple in the farming village even long before Telwinar’s arrival, and its rough-hewn beams, beer-stained tables, and blended aromas of alcohol, food, and honest perspiration seemed a haven after a hard day of labor. Edward sat amid a friendly ring of guardsmen, having bathed; and Nightfall felt secure leaving the prince in the hands of the overlord’s men while he tended the horses, then cleaned and stowed their gear. The accommodations were simple but clean, the food fresh from the tiny personal gardens each farmer kept to supplement his family’s income. The excess, such as it was, usually found its way here.

  Nightfall had lingered over the basin and pitcher of water supplied by the innkeeper. Of his regular personae, only Balshaz the merchant concerned himself with cleanliness. Now, scrubbed skin and no need for paint, grease, and dyes made him feel strangely free despite his servitude. The gelding’s foamy spit washed easily from his short-cut, mahogany locks, a welcome change from Marak’s itchy tangle that had taken its color more from dirt and grime than dye. He gathered up their travel-dusty clothing for the washerwoman on the opposite side of town. He had some experience with laundering, but filth had become a familiar accessory to his masquerades and he knew nothing about the proper care of silk. He had left the tied bundle of clothing and one of Edward’s silver coins in the hands of a local boy whose integrity he trusted, with explicit instructions to give money and garments to the washerwoman. The boy was told to report directly to him if the woman gave him less than four coppers for his trouble.

  His work finished, Nightfall finally joined Prince Edward in the common room, scarcely managing to wolf down winter-stored turnips, peas, and squash before two more of the overlord’s guards arrived. These bowed briefly, then one addressed the prince. "Prince Edward, the Healer can see your squire now."

  Edward looked up from his food and company to reply. "Excellent, thank you." He glanced at Nightfall. "I’ll be here or in the room, Sudian."

  Nightfall rose reluctantly, dinner only half-finished. They had eaten well enough on the trip, but the work had left him hungry and cooked vegetables seemed far superior to the hard tack they had consumed for the past week. He glanced at Prince Edward, assessing the situation fully before leaving the prince’s side. Delfor possessed nothing more dangerous than an occasional mean-spirited traveler in the worst of times. Poor farm villages rarely attracted thieves, even should Edward still have had money to steal. Nightfall believed the beggars would stay away. Though soft-hearted with the natives, the innkeeper brooked no nonsense from strangers, especially those who would not or could not pay for what they ate or harmed those who could. The rabble wanted Edward’s money, not his life; and they surely knew they would earn no goodwill from him or other nobility if they mobbed him again. For the moment, Edward had a protective retinue of village guardsmen as well.

  The two Delforian guards escorted Nightfall from the common room and back into the main street, their hovering presence an uncomfortable reminder of his arrest in Alyndar. Mired in exhaustion, worry, and pain, he floundered for the knife-edged clarity of mind he relied on in the most menacing situations. The Healer seemed god-sent, appearing in the most unlikely place at a time when he needed the service. That stroke of luck concerned him far more than the presence of a pair of guards he could dispose of, if necessary, even one-handed. Anything convenient was a trap until proven coincidence.

  As the three walked past shops and cottages, Nightfall sought information, keeping his queries and comments within the realm of normal curiosity. "The wound is deep. I appreciate your effort and generosity, but I doubt there’s much this Healer can do for me."

  The guards exchanged knowing smiles that unnerved Nightfall. "Genevra’s good,” the one to his right said. "She’s fixed a lot of injuries people doubted she could help."

  Nightfall studied the speaker’s wide, friendly features. A brown mustache hid his upper lip. Coloring and the set of his face identified him as a Delforian native, and his accent fit the region. "Obviously she’s someone important. I never saw a town so protective of a Healer, nor any Healer with such a following.” Nightfall made a broad gesture that included the sparse beggars but also indicated the incident from earlier in the day. The guilt that came from the reminder might make the guards more talkative.

  “She’s a special Healer," the same man said. "Doesn’t use herbs or stitches or nothing.”

  The other guard, also a native Delforian cut in, "She’s got some sort of magical power, but she ain’t like no sorcerer I ever heared tell of."

  Just the pronouncement of "sorcerer" sent Nightfall’s throat spasming closed. His step faltered for an instant, but he otherwise gave no sign of his distress. He searched for solace and guidance, finding it in the realization that Genevra far more likely belonged among the one out of every thousand with a natal ability than the one out of five thousand with a bent toward sorcery. The realization did little to allay anxiety, however. Hunting and slaying sorcerers probably kept the numbers of natally empowered and sorcerers even, and he had never heard of one of the congenitally gifted sharing her skill so flagrantly. Still, it made just as little sense for a sorcerer to do so. They could gain their spells by ritualistically slaughtering other sorcerers as well as from the innocently gifted. Unless she’s so competent she’s trying to draw other sorcerers to her. That brought another idea to the fore, one that might help him differentiate natal from captured skill. Dyfrin had a theory that the gifted could operate their powers by thought alone, perhaps accompanied by a simple point or touch w
hen those abilities required directing. Sorcerers, however, needed to torment their stolen and bonded souls to activate their powers, a process that required gestures and/or words.

  Nightfall’s contemplations dropped him into a silence he knew he had to break to keep the conversation natural. “Magic? I don’t know as I believe in it, but it can’t hurt to let her try." For all his cheery confidence, Nightfall felt uncertain of his decision. The odds all seemed in his favor. If Genevra was a fraud, he lost nothing. If she turned out to have a congenital gift, she might have the competence to restore use to his hand, without which he had small chance for survival, if she were a sorcerer, she would still have to establish that he had a gift before she tried to take it from him. Unless she obtained some spell that allows her to recognize powers in others. The thought chilled him. The gifts took many and varied unpredictable forms, and he could not begin to guess the possibilities. If it existed, that particular gift, he felt certain, would become the coveted property of every sorcerer in existence.

  The guards made wordless noises of agreement as they circled the fountain and approached the front of the central building. Nearby, the community hall seemed to have shrunk in the shadow of the Healer’s structure, though both were constructed from the same Delforian oak. Nightfall made a mental note to stop in the hall before taking leave of Delfor. Few of the farmers and citizens could read, but they did keep up a pictorial and color-coded board to let others know who needed assistance or had jobs for hire. Using it, Nightfall might see to it that Telwinar’s belongings, tools, and horses found their way to those most needy.

  Catching himself falling naturally into Telwinar’s character, Nightfall shook the thought from his mind. It belonged in the head of the withdrawn and plodding farmer, not starry-eyed Sudian or the demon who haunted men’s nightmares in all corners of the continent. Instead, while the guards exchanged comments with four others standing alert before the Healer’s door, his mind drafted the one most significant question.

  The guards returned momentarily, and Nightfall spoke quickly. Once they gestured him through the doors the time for chatter would end. "Does this Genevra have other magic besides healing?" He had never heard of anyone with more than one natal ability. Possessing two or more would affirm her as a sorcerer, though a single gift would tell him nothing. A sorcerer who had killed only once was still a sorcerer.

  "Only the magic all pretty, young women have over men," the rightward guard said.

  The other nodded agreement. "The magic of the nubile. This way, Squire." He gestured a path between the four sentries, who stepped aside to let the trio pass.

  Though discomfited, Nightfall hid all signs from long practice. If she were a sorcerer, obvious anxiety would surely catch her attention.

  The guards pulled open the thick panel. They ushered Nightfall through it and into an antechamber with a second door on the far side. "You’ll have to leave any weapons here." The outer door clanged shut, locked from the outside. “You’ll get them back."

  The idea of disarming himself before a possible sorcerer rankled, and the injuries that hampered his usual agility only amplified his concern. Still, the precaution made sense. If not a sorcerer herself, the Healer had much to fear from a parade of armed strangers, any of whom could hide his bent for ritual murder and magic. Her skill seemed far more useful and precious than Nightfall’s own. Mimicking Edward’s guileless innocence, he handed over sword and belt and the remaining pair of his knives. He had left the six knives from Alyndar’s armory in his gear and lost the third throwing knife in the battle in Nemix. He kept the one of Grittmon’s jeweled blades he had recovered, hidden well enough that a standard search would not uncover it. The guards frisked him briefly; Nightfall guessed he underwent the abbreviated version as an emissary from Alyndar’s king. Apparently satisfied, one pulled out a key and unlocked the second door. He pushed it open.

  The room beyond smelled faintly of incense. Mats and pillows lay scattered around the floor, enough to sleep six or seven comfortably. A hearth lined one wall, swept clean; and shelves on the other held knickknacks in human and animal shapes, perfume, and toiletries. A niche in the wall supported a bar from which hung several cloaks and dresses, plain but well-sewn. A young woman sat cross-legged on a green cushion with corner tassels. Straight, blonde hair fell to her waist, shimmering in the light of several torches in sconces along the walls. Her fair features held the blush of youth; and Nightfall estimated her age between seventeen and twenty-one years. By her coloring, he guessed she was born of southern folk, from Noshtillan, Sehiz, or Meclar. Once she spoke, her accent and the timbre of her speech would likely reveal her origin more specifically. A pair of guards stood nearby, their expressions grim and businesslike.

  As Nightfall stepped into the room, his escort closed the door behind him, remaining inside to reinforce the woman’s protections.

  Nightfall executed a respectful bow, as he had learned in Alyndar. "Sudian, squire to Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

  The woman smiled, flushing with adolescent embarrassment at his formality. Her shy innocence, clearly no act, allayed Nightfall’s fears. He doubted a woman this young could have concocted and executed such an elaborate scheme so near to the time of awakening of sorcerer’s powers. "Yes, I know. According to these men . . ." She indicated the guards. "Your master told them you got wounded heroically defending his life."

  Noshtillan. Nightfall identified her speech patterns from the first few words. Her expressions and voice revealed much. Though naive to decorum and politics, her easy talk and gentle gestures told him she had experience with men. "My master is kind and deserving of fierce loyalty." He approached with caution, gauging the guards as well as the woman. “You must be the one they call Genevra.”

  “I am." The Healer rose as he approached, and her movements revealed more about her past. She seemed nearly as nervous as he had felt en route. He attributed that to the same fear of hidden sorcerers and to relative inexperience with sharing her gift. However, she reached for him with a practiced tenderness that suggested knowledge of passion, probably with more than one man. She seemed noticeably graceful for a woman of her age, with muscled legs honed by some physical sport rather than standard labor: dancing or horse work, most likely. The callus-free palm that closed around his uninjured hand reinforced the image. "Sit." She sank back to her pillow and indicated the mat in front of her. "I presume the problem is your hand, though I can see you’re limping, too."

  Nightfall did as she bid, appreciating her powers of observation as well. While he had studied her, she had, apparently, studied him. Yet, her inspection clearly focused on his needs rather than his heritage or danger. He set to work unwinding the bandage from his fingers. It made sense to start there. Not only was it the more significant wound but attention to it would give her the chance to become more comfortable with him before having to minister to an injury in a personal location. As a prostitute’s son, Nightfall had had little experience with modesty as a child; but learning others’ embarrassments and weaknesses had served him well in the past, as a weapon as well as a tool for gaining trust. The last loop of cloth stuck to the slash, caked with blood. He pulled it free quickly, preferring a brief agony to a prolonged lesser pain, and the Healer winced in sympathy.

  Genevra took Nightfall’s hand. Green eyes met blue-black and held momentarily. Her beauty stemmed from more than youth, but he sensed a deeper pain and fear before she turned her gaze to his injury. No doubt, she knew the terror of the hunted, and all suggestion that she might be a sorcerer fled his mind. “I’ll need to touch it. It takes some time to channel the energies properly, so find a comfortable position. It’ll feel strange, probably like nothing you’ve felt before.” She balanced his hand against her foot and the pillow, then looked at him for confirmation.

  The position felt comfortable enough for now, but Nightfall took Genevra at her word, readjusting the location of palm and fingers until he found a relaxed and natural arrangement. The wound
throbbed in a slow cadence. The fall from his horse had reopened the slash so it looked as if no healing had occurred, and he could still see yellow-white tendon gaping through muscle and skin. He nodded his readiness.

  Unlike standard Healers, Genevra did not prod the wound. Without preamble, she clamped her grip to his. Nightfall scarcely felt the touch, though he did not know whether to attribute this to some specific of her gift or lack of sensation from the injury. The pressure did send a shock of pain through his arm that disappeared almost as quickly. The agony that had grown commonplace in the past weeks channeled away, leaving only the dull ache of his thigh and the persistent tingle of the oath-bond.

  The Healer cringed, then shuddered. Her grip tightened, evidenced only by the shift of muscles through her forearm. Nightfall still could not perceive her hold.

  Gradually, Genevra’s expression softened and her teeth unclenched. "Does that feel better?” Her demeanor became generally more relaxed and the gaze she turned him brighter.

  "Much, my lady." Nightfall smiled as their eyes met again, trying to mellow the piercing stare that had terrified so many. "Does this healing hurt you?"

  "Only at first." Genevra’s easy conversation made it clear she could talk throughout the process, though she tended to clip her words in the manner of Noshtillan’s lower class. "I have to draw out the pain to get rid of it. The healing, though, is simple enough. I just channel energy to you, and your body does the work."

  Nightfall considered how this fell into Dyfrin’s speculation. A sorcerer’s spell would torture the gifted soul, not the caster. Although the healing process took time, the summoning of the power did not seem to tax Genevra at all. He glanced around at the overlord’s guards. The two stationed here watched the process with appropriate intentness, though their stances revealed boredom. His escorts chatted in low voices, their words too low to hear but their casual gestures revealing nothing menacing or of concern. Curiosity got the better of him then. He needed to understand why a young and pretty woman had trapped herself into the overlord’s service, providing care that caused her pain several times a day. At the least, he might gain some useful information about local practicing sorcerers. First, however, he had to rid himself of snooping ears. “You’re from the other peninsula, aren’t you?"