Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  “Have you ever been to Carrillon before?” Gwyth asked.

  “No, I haven’t. This is my first visit. I’d heard the Duke wished to see me, so I came this way…”

  “I am certain he will be pleased.”

  “I must admit I am not used to being invited to a ducal palace for dinner. Does he do this often?”

  Gwyth chuckled. “The Duke invites people at his whim. Anyone interesting may find themselves invited.” He paused a moment as we walked a few steps. “Of course, he also invites people he wants to impress, and all those of high station. I suspect you may be one of the interesting people.”

  “I will try to be.”

  “Good.”

  We came to a large set of double doors. The guard in front of it knocked on it as we approached and someone inside drew them open; I heard music coming from beyond. The guard halted us and demanded my name. I told him.

  One of the men on door-duty inside shouted, “Sir Halar the Wizard!”

  Heads turned. Inside, it was a ballroom, complete with polished floor and crystal-dripping chandelier. Dancers kept dancing, but I think we might have been responsible for several near-collisions. On opposite sides of the dance floor were buffet and drink tables, constantly replenished by a stream of servants. At one end of the ballroom was a raised area—three steps up—with a long table on it. The table was covered in a white cloth and had about a dozen occupied seats. The diners—rather than run the buffet, they were being served—all sat on the far side of the table to face the room. One chair was larger than the others and placed in the center of that side. I assumed the chair’s occupant was the Duke. He beckoned us to approach. We did so and stopped across the table from him.

  “My lord Duke,” Gwyth began, “may I present Sir Halar, the wizard.”

  The Duke nodded. He was rather thin and pale, but with a sharp eye. I wouldn’t have put him down as more than twenty or so. Dark hair curled down to his neck, carefully styled. He looked me over with a gleam in his eye that worried me.

  “Sir Halar,” Gwyth continued, “His Grace, the Duke Martis Andalon.”

  I bowed. Linnaeus taught me the proper way to do it, which involves more than just bending at the waist. There’s how to hold your head, whether or not to look at the person, comparative ranks, and a dozen other things. I did my best to do the knight-bows-to-Duke routine.

  It must have been close enough. He smiled and gestured me closer. I stepped up to the edge of the table.

  “I understand that you have some skill with a blade and with magic, both,” he said. His voice was reedy and hard to listen to. It was like listening to a radio station with static. Everything else tried to drown it out.

  “I have that reputation, your Grace.”

  “So I note. Come, sit with me and tell me the truth of your deeds.” He gestured to a chair on his side of the table, so I took a long walk around to get to it. Once I was seated, he started in on questions. What really happened at Crag Keep, how I broke the viksagi, how did I kill the dragon, where did I get my horse… the list went on and on.

  I have a fan.

  It became obvious as we talked. He wanted to know everything. Worse, he wanted me to tell it like a bard would tell it, the full story. I tried my best, especially when I saw how he hung on every word. The servants kept circulating with food and drink, continually adding or subtracting food in front of me. I snacked a little as I talked and did what I could to answer his questions.

  Some were tough. He wanted to know where I grew up. I resorted to the whole my-parents-traveled-a-lot story. Then he wanted to know all about my parents…

  I had one good advantage: He loved every word.

  Don’t get me wrong. I like the Duke. He’s an honest young man and earnest about knowing everything there is to know about heroes. The Hero that figures prominently in Linnaeus’ songs and stories—well, that guy is probably a good role model. I wouldn’t be worried about the moral fiber of anyone who holds that guy in high regard.

  It made me wish I was that guy. The Duke believed in the Right. You could see it in his eyes. Or, rather, he wanted to believe, wanted it so badly he could make himself believe.

  I tried to sound like I lived up to that image, for his sake.

  After a while, I got rescued. Several people arrived while I talked and there was a backlog waiting to pay their respects to the Duke. The Duke eventually took notice of them and I took the opportunity to slip away to the garderobe. I had a cleaning spell and a disguise spell ready, so I just waited out the sunset there.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 16TH

  Back in the ballroom, I was accosted before I took two steps. Apparently, they only announce you the first time you enter, so the Duke didn’t instantly note I was back.

  The lady that buttonholed me was beautiful in a Reubenesque way. There was a lot of her, but it was arranged artfully. I didn’t think a woman that heavy could be that beautiful, but I generally like ’em more athletic. Her outfit was appropriate to a fancy ballroom, complete with long skirt and the jeweled lancet things in her hair.

  She interposed herself in my path and curtseyed. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I bowed in response.

  “Good sir,” she began, “I believe you to be the Wizard Knight.”

  I could hear the capitals.

  “That I am, dear lady. I regret that your own fame has not yet reached my ears—or the tales of your beauty fall far short of the reality. May I ask your name?”

  Linnaeus has a lot of good lines, and I paid attention.

  “I am the Lady Taria,” she answered, simpering. The name didn’t ring any bells.

  “Then the pleasure of this meeting is mine.”

  “Only a small part, surely,” she replied. “It is only once in a lifetime that a Hero is celebrated.”

  I made a mental note to ask Linnaeus why everyone was using that word with a capital letter.

  “I’m not so much a Hero,” I protested. “Just a man.”

  “It takes a real man to be a Hero. There is always a shortage. But tell me, do Heroes—or men—dance?” she inquired.

  “Badly. But if you are willing to risk your feet…”

  She took my arm and I allowed myself to be escorted to the dance floor. People stared again. I was getting used to the many and sundry covert glances, but this open staring was something else again.

  Ballroom dancing isn’t my favorite pastime even when I’m not nervous. As it was, I was mingling with some very well-dressed nobility and trying to keep in step with something like a complicated clockwork involving feet. It made me glad I was dead at the moment. We had a brief moment of handy confusion as we negotiated the appropriate grips and embrace, then we tried fitting into the dance pattern. The Lady Taria made small talk and we batted the conversational ball back and forth.

  As we revolved around the floor, I found myself brushing past a priest. I could tell, not because he was dressed in formal vestments—he wasn’t—but because he wore a medallion of silver with an open, golden hand embossed on it. For a moment, I wondered if I was about to feel unpleasantly warm. We slipped past each other without more than a glance.

  How many more priests are here? I wondered. And how many of them are from the Order of the Hand?

  My nervousness increased sharply. I tried not to step on her feet.

  When the dance was over and we were all bowing to our partners, another lady sidled up beside me. She was a cute little thing, possibly all of fifteen, and dressed like a princess from a fairy tale. She even had the pointy hat on top of her golden curls.

  “Will milord Hero be dancing again?” she inquired. My erstwhile partner looked less than amused around the eyes, but her mouth kept smiling. I got the impression I had a full dance card. If I’d had a card.

  “If milady wishes it,” I replied. She cooed happily and snuggled up to my arm possessively. I looked at Lady Taria and asked, “If her Ladyship will be so kind as to excuse me?”

  Lady Taria’s mouth-only smile wid
ened slightly. She inclined her head in a nod and I allowed the youngster to assume a dancing position in front of me. Where our hands went was a bit more complicated—she couldn’t seem to make up her mind—and it was more awkward due to the height difference. When the music started, I was relieved to see it was something less like a sedate square-dance and more like a freestyle waltz. I waltzed. The girl could dance, but wasn’t familiar with the waltz. She picked it up quickly.

  “You dance very well,” she said, smiling up at me. I was head and shoulders taller. Looking up at me made her threaten people behind her with that silly hat. Her height may have been the reason for the extra-tall hat, now that I think of it.

  “As do you,” I answered. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  “Oh, you are Sir Halar the Wizard,” she breathed. “Everyone knows you!”

  Another fan. Judging by the flush on her cheeks and the colors flickering in her aura, a very… ardent fan.

  “Perhaps you are right,” I admitted. “Will milady do me the honor of allowing me to know her name?”

  She giggled. “I am the Lady Callias,” she said, pronouncing it cal-EYE-as, “daughter to the Duke Brenner, heir to the Duchy Brenner.”

  “I am impressed. I’m dancing with near-royalty and I’m not even landed.”

  “My father might change that,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at me in what was probably meant to be a seductive fashion. “Together, we might persuade him.”

  I’m being propositioned by a fifteen-year-old! I thought. I wasn’t sure if she meant I could get a small landholding out of it if I was nice to her, or if she meant I could marry her and inherit a dukedom. Either way, it was probably a good deal, economically. Unfortunately, I have an allergy to pedophilia, prostitution, and other perversions starting with “P.”

  “I can certainly see that you’re persuasive on your own,” I hedged. “It might be rude of me to leave the Duke Andalon’s party so soon, though.”

  She laughed and squeezed my hand as we danced. Her other hand also squeezed and I did my best to ignore it.

  “Silly. There are protocols to be observed. Perhaps you will pay me a visit at my father’s residence tomorrow?” Again with the fluttering lashes, this time with a coy look. She had the coy look down pat. I wondered if she practiced in front of a mirror.

  “I will certainly have it on my mind,” I said.

  She smiled again and looked me up and down, deliberately. Slowly. Then she met my eyes and licked her lips.

  Duke Brenner, I reflected, must be either a very liberal father or Callias a very clever daughter—since she wasn’t locked up in a convent, somewhere. Then again, I haven’t heard anything about convents or monasteries or anything of that sort. Maybe she could get away with more by being an only child; she did mention being the Ducal heir…

  After the dance, Callias tried to persuade me off the dance floor. Since no one was about to snatch me up while she had my arm, I was being towed toward a quiet corner. That’s when the guys on door-duty announced another guest.

  “Cardinal Tobias, Prelate of the Order of the Hand!”

  Callias came to a sudden halt and nearly fell, mainly because I did the equivalent of turning to stone. I froze in place, staring at the door.

  Tobias was thinner than I recalled. He looked more ascetic, more hungry around the face. His robes were a dark red silk; they shimmered in the light and made me think of a curtain of blood. The belt was red velvet and accentuated the shimmer of the silk. On the chest was an ornate, open hand in winking yellow stones. A pendant hung around his neck, outside his robes: a silver disk with a stylized sun in gold on it. He carried a staff in one hand and he seemed almost to glow with an inner light.

  The light was visible to my nighteyes. His spirit was many times brighter than anyone else in the room. It was not the light of some holy power, either. It was energy, pure and simple, and it shone through his flesh and clothing like a searchlight through paper. The glow wasn’t at all like the radiance I saw when assassins attacked; in fact, nothing about him suggested even the slightest trace of that power. The power inside him looked more like… well… me, after an evening meal.

  I don’t know how that much raw power got crammed into him. I don’t even know what effect it has on someone who is actually alive. I’ve never even thought about it, much less seen it.

  It took me a minute to realize he was flanked by a pair of lesser priests. The trio moved toward the Duke’s table, escorted by Sir Gwyth. Callias tugged on my arm impatiently.

  “Sir Halar? What is it?”

  I shook my head and resumed walking. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ve just never seen the leader of the Hand before.”

  She sniffed in disdain. “He is a commoner, risen through the Church by cold piety and shrewdness.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes. He is the son of a shoemaker, I believe, although he would have you forget it.”

  “I think I’d like to meet him.”

  She cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “Why?”

  “Well, I started out as a commoner, myself.”

  “But you have proven your worth,” she pointed out. “You are a Hero.”

  I am going to have to get Linnaeus to go over this whole hero-thing with me. I’m beginning to think it’s an actual title, or something.

  “Maybe I’ll be a good example for him?” I hazarded. Callias laughed and squeezed my arm.

  “Anything my Hero desires,” she breathed. But she did lead me over to Tobias. I was thinking, thinking very hard, about what I was going to say and do. So much depended on whether or not he knew what I looked like…

  Damn. I was sure I could kill him and get away with it. Have the scabbard unhooked, let it fall while I drew, slash upward through the body without letting Firebrand ignite—

  No searing to stop the blood. No problem, boss. I understand.

  You are not helping.

  —a single sideswipe to take the head off—

  I can light for that part, right?

  Will you stop tempting me? Please!

  I’m not the one thinking about it, boss.

  —and that’s all it would take. Then running for it, bowling people out of the way like running through a cornfield, shouting for Bronze… I could pull it off.

  I could do it.

  The last time I jumped in with both feet, it was more like toppling into a whirling pool of blood. This time it would be more metaphorical, but also more messy.

  So I kill Tobias. What happens?

  The Duke Andalon gets upset. I get tagged as an assassin by everybody. Maybe Tobias doesn’t come after me, but the Hand surely does. They won’t be able to ignore me. Will the magicians stand up for me and say, “Hey, we were in on it!”? I don’t think so. Why should they? I don’t trust them that far. Besides, I went over this with T’yl. If I nailed Tobias right here, the magicians would have what they wanted; they wouldn’t need me anymore.

  I was nervous. More, I was scared. And rationalizing. I realized I didn’t want to do this.

  It’s one thing to kill a man because he’s pointing a gun at you. It’s something else again to find someone who wants to die and drink down his life. And then there’s calculated murder.

  That’s the problem.

  I was planning to assassinate the man.

  Now, I admit I’m a killer. I’ve killed people because they were trying to kill me. I’ve killed people because they wanted to die. I’ve killed people because I needed their blood and living essence. That doesn’t excuse it, just explains it. I’ve had a reason for killing every time I’ve done it. Every time, it was a needful thing that the other person die. I don’t kill people because my head tells me it’s the right thing to do. It’s a visceral thing, deep in the guts, that says, this is what I have to do now.

  I’ve never met Tobias. I’ve had some dreams, I’ve heard some stories, and I’ve looked at him in a crystal. But I’ve never act
ually met the man, known him for who he is, and felt the desire in my heart to kill him. I wanted to kill the person responsible for Sasha’s death, but that was “someone responsible,” an imaginary target of rage and pain. This was a person. A person I didn’t even know. My guts weren’t telling me he should be dead—my brain was telling me that. My brain was telling me to coldly and rationally kill him, because he was a threat to me.

  I wasn’t sure I could do that. Sure, he probably deserved it. And, maybe, if I could find some convenient serial killers and axe-murderers to snack on, I could make myself kill the man in cold blood.

  Good God! Why do I have to have moral issues with killing someone? I feel like such a hypocrite! It’s worse than a vegetarian touting organically-grown steaks.

  I had to look at myself and ask the big questions. Is it right to kill this man? Is it something I have to do? Will it be, ultimately, something that makes the world a better place—because once I’ve done it, I can’t undo it! But I’m sure it’s a good thing to kill Tobias. I know it… I just don’t feel it. I know I should kill him.

  My heart isn’t in it. I just don’t have enough capacity for hatred. I don’t know him and I can’t bring myself to do the whole premeditated murder thing. In the heat of the moment, or under the goad of blood-thirst, yes. But to walk up, dispassionately stick a sword through someone, and walk calmly on?

  We approached on a slant, arm in arm. The Duke saw me coming—I think he was just being polite and letting me dance and mingle a little before summoning me again—and nodded that I might approach. Tobias was seated across the table from the Duke, his back to the rest of the room. I noted that Tobias rated a chair, but wasn’t invited around to the Duke’s side of the table. His escorts stood behind and to either side, like bodyguards; the one on his right held Tobias’ staff.

  Where’s Linnaeus when I need his advice? Probably mingling with the musicians.

  When I reached conversational range, the Duke got up to greet me. This was a shocker. I don’t know much about the protocol of the court, but he accorded me an honor reserved for equals. I must have made a good impression.