The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Nightfall could almost hear Dyfrin’s voice screaming in his head. Listen to all and listen well. Given chance and a little ingenuity, most men will hand you their money. Make it seem their own idea, and return what you don’t need. Greed pays in moments; kindness and fairness for a lifetime. Living always from instant to instant and situation to situation, Nightfall had found small use for Dyfrin’s long-term advice. Now, as always, he tried to find a means to use the men’s volunteered information to gain the last of the needed money. He doubted pitting horse against horse would earn enough attention from Trillium’s populace to make a bet worth his while. However, when a horse dealer got behind an animal, he tended to do so with serious, almost blind, prejudice. The more interesting stakes would lie in the bet between horse owners.

  Nightfall attempted to hide his interest in joining the contest behind loyalty. "My master lets me ride a horse that’s faster than any. I’ve run down lots of other horses with it." He finally looked directly at Edward again, trying to keep his demeanor proud. The bay he rode had much to recommend it for speed, stamina, and health, a true prince’s beast, better than Edward’s own in Nightfall’s mind. Though surely not the quickest in the world, and probably not even of the three, it should hold its own well enough. And Nightfall had already computed a way to more than even the odds.

  Gerbrant laughed, finding Nightfall’s bragging ludicrous. "We’re not talking about horses with a bit of the quickness to them. Homrihn’s been talking up this running horse of his forever. Says it can cover the distance between Brigg and Trillium in the time it takes to think out the sights from here to there." A smug expression crossed his features. "You’re welcome enough to add your animal to the field if you got fifty silver to back up your claim about its speed."

  Prince Edward visibly stiffened, though he gave no verbal warning. Gerbrant’s workers snickered.

  "What’s the fifty silver for?" Nightfall feigned ignorance, though his speculation had, thus far, proven correct.

  "That’s the stake." Gerbrant finally settled his gaze on Nightfall, though he stole a glance at Edward, presumably to read the prince’s reaction to his squire’s bold challenge, made freely without pause for permission. When the prince gave no indication that Nightfall’s words or actions had angered him, Gerbrant continued. "Homrihn and I each put up fifty against the other. You add fifty and get yourself a rider, you can compete."

  Cued by Gerbrant’s behavior, Nightfall assumed the manner and tone of an excited child. “May I, Master? Please."

  Prince Edward shifted uncomfortably in his seat, obviously torn between common sense and his squire’s fanatical faith in a horse. He lowered his voice so even Nightfall could scarcely hear. "Do you have the money?”

  “And enough to cover meals and lodgings for a long time," Nightfall whispered in reply.

  The prince pursed his lips, obviously impressed. "These men told me you had done well in the betting. I hadn’t realized how well.”

  Only Nightfall recognized the understatement.

  Edward shrugged, making his disapproval clear with gesture and tone, though his words did not match. "You may use the horse." Though he said nothing more, Nightfall read intention easily. The prince had grown concerned that success would give his squire an inflated and false confidence when it came to gambling. More than one good man had become a slave to the chance for fast money, even long after he lost all of his own and what he could steal, beg, or borrow. Nightfall felt certain that, once in private with his charge, he would receive a long lesson on the evils of gambling. He had played his last card. The horse race, like the swindler’s scam, had fallen into his lap; but careful planning, not serendipity would turn it from rout to profit. He had no choice except to win this race, one way or another. Edward would not knowingly allow him to wager again, and any attempt to bypass the prince would risk the trust he had gained as well as the consequences of the oath-bond.

  The last thought stirred a buzz of quiescent magic, and Nightfall could not suppress a shiver. He was skirting its edges too often for comfort. "Thank you, Master. Thank you so much." Rattled, he nearly lost his act, and he forced his concentration back to the role of a squire eager to prove the worth of his master’s property.

  Gerbrant watched the exchange in silence, apparently catching enough to assume Edward’s consent for, if not approval of, his squire’s participation in the race. He addressed his comments to the superior. "Lord, the horses will run on Adeseele’s oat field, just south of town. Weigh-in for riders is midday." He smiled. "You’re welcome to make side bets with me or anyone else, Prince Edward."

  "Thank you,” Edward said.

  Gerbrant shifted methodically, obviously waiting for more from the prince, presumably a wager made in the heat of the challenging moment. When none came, he pushed back his chair, stretched, and nodded a parting amenity. "Good day, lord and squire. You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck."

  "Good day," Edward returned.

  Gerbrant headed from the common room, flanked by his helpers. As they retreated, the serving maid arrived with Nightfall’s breakfast. She set it before him and whisked back to her station.

  Prince Edward kept his voice below the regular ebb and flow of conversation. His features crinkled with honest concern, and his pale eyes echoed the sentiment. "Sudian, I appreciate you finding a way to get money when we needed it. I confess I encouraged you when I probably shouldn’t have. Luck is a fickle mistress. It will become unfaithful too soon. When it does, I don’t want it to leave you so accustomed to winning that your mind sees nothing else."

  Though painfully hungry, Nightfall gave Edward his full attention to indicate he viewed the situation as gravely as his master. “Master, thank you. Once the race is won, I’ll have enough silver to buy you what I’ve gambled for; and I won’t need any more wagers or games of chance."

  Edward’s expression lapsed into one of surprise, and a strand of yellow hair fell across his forehead. The careless beauty of Prince Edward of Alyndar struck Nightfall; he seemed exactly the man women conjured in their fantasies. Though Nightfall held no interest in the looks of other men, he knew a sense of pride he could not quite explain for serving the epitome of female dreams. For the first time, he noticed the absence of the usual bitterness he had known in the presence of nobles born to wealth who flaunted their privileges like badges of honor and courage. He had scratched the surface of the prince’s ignorant naiveté and found a potential wellspring of goodness beneath that matched the handsomeness of his external features. Unfortunately, it appeared that it might take a thousand men with a thousand spades to dig through the shell of guileless innocence he had built around himself since infancy. Should he become a ruler, he would prove kind to his people at the expense of his own safety and welfare. Soon enough, someone stronger and meaner would wrest authority from him unless he could find some person or group to advise and defend him.

  Understanding came to Nightfall in a sudden rush. For now, he held that position, and the oath-bond bound him to perform it well. Could that have been King Rikard’s intention from the start? Could a king known as "the hammer-handed" foresee that even a cold-blooded killer’s false loyalty would become real in time? Did he send us out together in the hope that adversity would draw us closer; believing his headstrong and simple-hearted son would gain an ally nasty enough to keep even him out of trouble? The genius of such a strategy impressed Nightfall, but his heart would not allow him to believe that a father would waste time plotting such intricate strategies for the welfare of a son. No parent could give so much. Surely, his original thought, that Rikard had sent out his embarrassment to die, would prove the truth.

  "You’ve worked this hard to buy something for me?" Edward’s voice shattered Nightfall’s train of thought, and it took unreasonably long to return to a conversation his mind had far outstripped. "I have everything I need. Why would you risk all and exhaust yourself for me?"

  Nightfall lowered his head, seeking to reorient himse
lf and find the proper words to answer at once. "I believe in you, Master, and all your good works. I’m buying something that can help you carry out all your Father-blessed plans." He looked up slightly, as if ashamed of the paltriness of his gift. "It’s only a small start, but it will grow."

  "What is it, Sudian?"

  Nightfall dropped his gaze again and shook his head vigorously. "Master, I’d rather not say yet. I would feel like I failed you if I didn’t get the money I needed. If I do get it, I’d like to surprise you. May I do that, Master?"

  "Surprise me?” Edward considered the possibility, obviously unaccustomed to the idea. "Very well, surprise me then. But I don’t need gifts from you. In fact, I still owe you the wages my father didn’t pay."

  "Master, you’ve handled my food, supplies, lodgings, and other needs. The pleasure of serving you is more than payment enough.” The sweetness of their exchange made Nightfall want to vomit, though the secret knowledge of his own deceit placed it all into perspective . . . at least for him. Sensing that even Prince Edward might have finally gotten an overdose of sappiness, he turned his attention to his breakfast, but not before he noticed tears of joy in his master’s eyes. And felt guilty for them.

  A film of clouds muted the sun, bringing the smell of damp though no raindrops fell. The first green sprouts of the oats poked through a dark mulch speckled with ground stems from the previous year’s crop. The track consisted of a straight plow path along one edge of the growing plants, hemmed on one side by village shops and cottages and on the other by an ankle-high mound separating road from crop, newly constructed for the race. Six villagers sat in judgment at an end line cut into the ground, and a small, mixed crowd of locals and visitors leaned against buildings or sat in the alleyways to watch. Nightfall saw only a handful of the odds makers and bet takers. An impromptu horse competition drew only a modicum of interest, and they could make better money in the gambling houses at night.

  Although malnutrition had kept Nightfall relatively slight, the other two riders stood significantly shorter and thinner than himself. They weighed in, allowing servants to prepare their horses. Nightfall handled his own mount. He gauged the competition, equine and human. Gerbrant’s Dash was a well-muscled gray gelding with an enormous rump. Homrihn’s Mr. Quick, a chestnut stallion, had long, lean legs and a massive chest. The latter pranced and blew until foam coated its neck and flanks. Nightfall guessed the nervous energy it expended now would cost it dearly in the race. The riders seemed more intent on the weigh-in than their mounts, with the nonchalance of men who have spent a lifetime around horses.

  Nightfall judged his options carefully as his turn to weigh arrived. He looped the bay mare’s lead rope around a sapling, trusting the surrounding grass to occupy her attention. His plan required that he weigh in as heavy as possible, but common sense deemed that he do so without drawing attention to his talent. By the time he reached the flat balancing platform and sat in the middle as the others had done, he concentrated on adding another quarter to his mass. The men placed measuring weights on the stack in the opposite pan until both sides hovered the breadth of a fist from the ground, equally balanced. Nightfall glanced over, calculating the total. His weight-shifting ability was a gross process that did not allow for specific or minor modifications. The boulders on the opposite side indicated that he weighed half again as much as the lightest of the riders, reasonable for a man Nightfall’s height. He hoped that his tailored linens hid his lack of bulk well enough.

  Both relatively well-fleshed men, Homrihn and Gerbrant accepted Nightfall’s weight without comment. The riders groused about the extra loads their mounts would have to carry to even the race, but not for long. Their balanced distribution in the saddlebags would prove easier for the horses to carry than Nightfall’s excess bulk, under ordinary circumstances. With a few last grumbles, they performed their individual rituals of prayer, limbering exercises, and whatever sequences of movement and phrase had brought them luck in the past. Dropping his weight back to normal, Nightfall saddled and bridled his nameless mount and sprang into position first. While the others shifted weights and legs into the most comfortable or presumed "winning" positions, Nightfall used ropes to bind himself to the saddle, seeing danger as well as necessity in the action. If the horse fell, he could not leap clear of danger; but he would need the security once the race began. He kept a stick in hand to coax the mare to greater speed.

  Farmhands led each of the horses to the track while another strung a rope across it. Accustomed to running, the stallion and gelding danced to the rope line, then backpedaled repeatedly. The musky odor of horse sweat became a reassuring constant. Familiar with Snow’s nervousness, Nightfall’s mare took little notice of the antsiness of her rivals. She remained alert, head raised, one ear forward and the other cocked back for Nightfall’s commands.

  Gerbrant stepped into the middle of the track and raised his hands. The conversations stilled to silence. "Friends, we have gathered to watch a competition between the fastest of the fast." A brief flurry of betting ensued, men placing their final wagers now that they could compare all three of the horses close together. "The rules are simple. The first nose to cross the line at the far end . . .” He gestured the six judges at the finish. ". . . belongs to the winning horse. Any rider who touches or strikes another rider or horse, guarantees third place for his mount, regardless of when he crosses the line. The race begins when the rope is dropped. First, I’d like to introduce you to horses and riders . . .”

  Gerbrant droned on, and Nightfall turned his attention to Prince Edward. The young blond perched on an over-turned crate in the alleyway, watching with interest though he took no hand in the proceedings, When Nightfall’s gaze found him, he smiled. Nightfall bowed his head respectfully. The more time Gerbrant wasted with his preamble, the larger Nightfall’s advantage become. The other two horses were gradually wearing themselves down with excitement. He turned his attention back to his mare. Experience had taught him that much ground could be gained and maintained by a fast and far-reaching start, especially on a short course.

  The mare had shown that ability when she chased down Edward’s gelding and the farmer’s cart horse when each had run riderless and with a headstart. The first moment could well determine the victor. He sat in a comfortable position, worrying more for stability than air resistance. Weight distribution and balance meant far less to him than to the others. He noticed that they sat well-forward in their saddles, keeping the majority of their mass centered on the horses’ withers and their chests and heads low. Nightfall caught a solid grip on the reins and on his stick.

  At a gesture, the rope fell. Before it hit the ground, Nightfall kicked the bay. As the mare’s forehooves left the ground, he dropped his weight instantly to as near nothing as his capability allowed. Suddenly without need to counter a rider’s weight, the mare turned her usual massive initial leap to a long glide that approached flight. Nightfall had little chance to enjoy the sensation as wind flung his near-weightless body backward, threatening to rip him from his seat. Only the thongs he had had the foresight to tie kept him in position, and those chewed into his thighs, calves, and ankles. The reins left bloodless lines against his palms.

  All three horses strained forward, necks outstretched, legs pounding, driven as much by the crowd’s shouts and cheering as by the sticks slapping repeatedly against their muscled flanks. Though faster, the other horses had little chance of catching the mare whose flying bound had vaulted her a quarter of the way down the track in an instant and who could gallop unfettered by a passenger’s bulk yet still charged by the faint sting of a striking stick. The bay crossed the line first and cleanly, without need for the judges to deliberate. Nightfall restored his weight gradually on the backstretch as he pulled the horse to a snorting stop and the others whipped past him. A grin lit his face, and he laughed, happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had his money. Soon enough, he believed, would come freedom.

  Nightfal
l spent most of the southward journey from Trillium convincing Prince Edward of the propriety and necessity of buying land. Obtaining the deed, in and of itself, had not appeased the oath- bond. Apparently, it required some acceptance from Edward or plans to build the appropriate structures to meet the criteria for becoming landed. Nightfall did not understand the petty details involved in fulfilling his part of the magics, but he felt certain he had finally come close to his goal. Freedom. The excitement that accompanied the thought had become a constant companion over the two weeks of travel around Meclar, Schiz, and Noshtillan. Anticipation formed a baseline thrill as strong as the receding buzz of Gilleran’s sorcery, tempered only by doubts Nightfall could not quite shake: What if King Rikard or Gilleran had lied about the workings of the oath-bond? What if he had become permanently trapped into Edward’s service? What if, once he realized his part of the bargain, the magic killed him regardless of outcome? What if it worked as promised, but he had misunderstood his role? Those questions haunted Nightfall well into every night, and pleasant dreams and ugly nightmares alternately followed him into sleep.

  By Nightfall’s calculations, he and Edward would arrive at their destination that day. Fused into a single, shapeless mass, clouds blanketed the sky, blotting the sun and leaving the general atmosphere a damp, dreary gray. Nightfall considered taking a different route, one that would add a day or longer to their journey to allow the full effect of the new acquisition to strike them both, grass pastures and rolling hills lit to emerald beauty by the golden rays of sun. Yet eagerness and desperate need would not allow the delay. Soon enough, they would come upon Edward’s new property; and it would have to look impressive enough through the weather nature provided.

  Just past midday, Prince Edward and Nightfall crested a hill, and flatlands loomed ahead. The horizon filled with ocean, and a salt smell mingled intermittently with the closer fragrances of wetness and greenery. Nightfall could not recall the last time he had felt so twitchy. He found himself seeking the light flutter of the oath-bond, uncertain whether to feel distress or comfort in its mild presence. Excitement drove him to an uncharacteristic, nervous prattle meant to fully convince Edward of the value of his squire’s gift. “It’s less important how a man gets his land and far more important what he does with what he has. There . . ." He pointed vaguely ahead, having taken to referring to the land in this fashion. ". . . no slavery will ever exist and servants will know their master’s actions will fall always under the watchful eye of Prince Edward." A muddy, vaguely sulfurous odor joined the other scents of the flatlands.