A long silence followed the pronouncement while Nightfall regained enough composure to speak with his usual boldness. "Sire, my name is Marak." After all that had happened, it seemed ludicrous to try to stay with his original lie, yet he had few alternatives. "I’m a sailor, not a criminal. Your men made a mistake."
The king glanced at his adviser, who shook his head, frowning.
Cued by the king’s attention to Gilleran at a time when it made more sense to watch his prisoner, Nightfall studied the exchange.
Rikard turned to the convict again. "You deny being Nightfall?"
“I would be a fool to do otherwise." Nightfall combed dried blood from his beard with his fingers.
Again, the king looked at Gilleran.
The chancellor scowled. "Certainly, Sire, he speaks the truth." He opened his mouth, revealing straight rows of ivory teeth. "But that doesn’t change the fact that he is Nightfall."
That explains why the king keeps consulting him. Some sort of truth detection, Nightfall presumed. No doubt, a skill wrenched from some innocent. He imagined a child writhing in the terror of a prolonged, sorcerous death, its soul shackled into a limitless agony of service.
"Who are you?" King Rikard directed another question at his prisoner.
Nightfall said nothing. Even if the query had had an answer, he would have chosen to sit in silence. If say nothing, the sorcerer can’t tell if I’m lying.
"Who are you?" Rikard repeated.
Another lengthy pause, the hush interrupted only by the rhythm of their breaths and the mottled shadows created by the flickering torches.
The king loosened a sigh of resignation. His manner became direct, and his tone matched the change. "Look, Nightfall . . . Marak . . . whatever your name is. You have nothing to gain by silence. Even if we drop the other charges, you killed two of my guards. For that, I have the right to execute you without trial and in any manner I wish. I’m not stupid. I won’t let you out of that cell until you’re dead. If you insist on ignoring my questions, I’ll call Volkmier and order him to fill you with arrows through the bars." He glared at Nightfall, tolerance clearly waning. “It’s not as bloody as he’d like, but I think he’d enjoy doing it slowly."
Trapped, Nightfall lowered himself to the floor. "And if I do talk? You’ll free me?"
This time, the king did not bother to consult his chancellor. “Actually, that’s a possibility.”
Nightfall kept his hopes in check. To believe such a thing was absurd, futile at best. "Forgive my doubts, Sire, but you did just remind me that I killed your guards. What possible reason could you have for letting me go?"
"Personal reasons." King Rikard’s brow furrowed and his features darkened, as if he considered some distant annoyance. "But first, I need some information from you. Specifically, the truth."
Nightfall looked away.
"You have nothing to lose by honesty. And nothing to gain by lying. Now, who are you?"
Nightfall considered. Silence or lies would seal his fate. He dared not believe the truth might buy him freedom; but, at least, it might buy him time. "Call me Marak. Call me Nightfall. What does it matter?"
King Rikard continued to press. “But who are you? Who are you really?"
The question was nonsense. "I’m Nightfall. I’m Marak. I’m a dozen others as. well.”
Gilleran examined Nightfall with the intensity of a peasant choosing the plumpest chicken in a market square. No emotion escaped his set jaw and rock-steady gaze.
The king ignored his adviser, clinging to the question. "What does your mother call you?"
"My mother is dead.”
Rikard narrowed in. "What did she call you before she died?"
An image filled Nightfall’s mind, blurred by time. He pictured the frail, slender form of his mother, her dark hair combed to a sheen, a red dress hugging curves sharpened by hunger. To him, she looked beautiful, yet her pinched features warned him of coming violence. He shrank from the image. "She called me ‘Boy’ mostly, Sometimes ‘Rat’ or ‘Stupid.’ "
King Rikard glanced sharply, at Gilleran, who shrugged. "Your mother called you those things?"
Bitterness tainted Nightfall’s words. "Some of us don’t grow up on hugs and kisses and silk."
The king seemed to ponder the words far too long before returning to his original inquiry. "But, surely, she gave you a name."
Nightfall searched his memory. Twenty-six years had passed since his mother`s death and thirty, at least, since she had used his name. "I believe it was Sudian, Sire. Though I haven’t heard it since I was a toddler."
"Then it should work just fine," King Rikard announced cryptically. He pulled at his beard, looking thoughtful. "Sudian what?"
Nightfall stared. The question made no sense to him."Huh?"
The king copied Nightfall’s defensive tone. "Well, forgive my growing up on hugs and kisses and a family name. But isn’t it customary in most countries to give a man a second name based on his parentage? Sudian some man’s son‘?"
Nightfall drew his knees to his chest, centralizing his balance. "Sudian Nomansson."
"No man’s son? Are you protecting your father? There’s no need. It’s not his fault his son is a murderer?”
"I have no father? Nightfall stated it definitively, hoping to end the conversation, yet with little doubt it would continue. About Nightfall’s history, the king’s curiosity seemed relentless.
As expected, Rikard pressed. "Every man has a father."
"Not me," Nightfall said shamelessly, catching and holding the king’s dark gaze. “My mother was a prostitute. Any man could be my father." The memories surfaced, the years robbing them of emotion. He recalled lurking in the shadows of the street, huddled against the cold, his thin, unpatched homespun of little comfort against the wind. He remembered trailing his mother and her latest client to the bare, dusty room scarcely warmer than the alleyways, watching them writhe and moan between threadbare sheets. By two years of age, he had learned to disappear before the session ended to avoid his mother’s teary-eyed rages against her lot and the child who, she insisted, cost her dearly in food, money, and time, though she gave him none of those. By the time he was three, he had learned to search her clients’ pockets for crumbs and spare change, inherently knowing that to take too much might turn their wrath against her.
"A prostitute," the king repeated. "Hardly no man’s son. I should think that would make you every man’s son."
The cavalier observation raised a wave of malice. Instantly, Nightfall’s thoughts were flung backward to the winter of his eighth year. Then, he had returned home from seeking food to find a stranger battering his mother while he ravished her. Nightfall had witnessed the final blow to the throat that turned her breaths to terminal gasps. A quarter of a century later, he still pictured the man with a vivid detail that could not be erased from memory. That pig and ones like him will never be my father. "No man came forward to claim me as his, and I am no man’s son."
The king and his chancellor waited, eyeing Nightfall expectantly.
Grimly, Nightfall completed the recollection, as his mind always did. His mother’s murderer had become Nightfall’s first victim, slaughtered by an enraged eight-year-old with a table knife and a lucky stab. The memory would remain for eternity: blood splashing, warm and chokingly thick with an odor like sea things dying on a beach; terror and fear robbing him of anger, yet leaving the dull triumph of revenge.
Oblivious to Nightfall’s crisis of memory, King Rikard finished. "Well. No man’s son, then. More importantly, are the charges against you true?"
Nightfall glanced at Chancellor Gilleran. The sorcerer stood with his arms folded and his legs crossed. A half-smile played about his lips. He nodded slightly, as if to feed the answer to the prisoner.
"Some of them," Nightfall admitted.
"You have killed?"
"From necessity." Nightfall kept his attention on Gilleran, awaiting a reaction. Necessity depended on definition.
> Gilleran stared blankly. He did not challenge Nightfall’s claim.
"You’ve stolen in every country in the world?"
Nightfall nodded once, not liking the direction of the questioning, yet knowing the king already had enough proof and reason to execute him.
"So you would say you’re familiar with every land? Their ways, their laws, their geography? The ways to avoid or escape trouble?"
The sudden shift in King Rikard’s approach surprised Nightfall. He raised his brows, trying to read the king’s intentions, though he suspected he did not have enough information to do so successfully. What does he want to hear? What do I have that he wants? "Sire, I could map them in detail with a stick and a handful of dirt. But I won’t reveal my secret haunts or name those who have helped me. I’d rather die in agony."
The king pursed his lips, rocking in place. His hands dropped to his sword belt, and he hooked a thumb over the leather. "I have more questions, Sudian Nomansson. But, in the meantime, I have a proposition.”
Nightfall rose to a crouch, instinctively finding the more defensible posture preferable, even for wholly mental pursuits. He knew too much of street scams to fall prey to subterfuge, but trapped and slated for instant execution, he currently found himself in the worst position for bargaining.
King Rikard paced before Nightfall’s cell. "As you may know, I have a son."
"Prince Leyne Nargol," Nightfall supplied.
Rikard smiled, stopping in his tracks, but he did not bother to look at Nightfall. "My younger son. Edward. Ned, we call him. A good boy with the best intentions, but terribly inexperienced and naive." He resumed pacing. "Yesterday, Ned accidentally killed a man, a member of a diplomatic entourage. And that cost me too much."
It seemed odd to Nightfall that the king would disparage his son to a criminal. Yet he supposed any discussion with one soon to be executed made no difference.
King Rikard came to an abrupt halt, seizing the bars in both hands and staring directly at Nightfall. "I paid blood price and quieting fees, but the gold means nothing. The problem is Ned."
Nightfall remained crouched and ready as a cornered animal, yet the direction of the king’s needs confused him. He doubted Rikard wanted his son murdered, though the ways of royalty sometimes pitted reputation against propriety. He waited for the king’s narrative to clarify his needs.
"Ned has cost me esteem, potential allies, thirty-six personal stewards, and my patience. Evidently, too much hugs and kisses and silk." He amended. "More to the point, too much time spent with philosophers and idealists." Having passed nearly beyond Nightfall’s vision, the king spun about and resumed his walk in the opposite direction. "Luckily for Alyndar, Ned has no claim to the kingdom nor any of her lands. My mind is made up. I’m sending him away to get himself propertied and, hopefully, to learn a little reality at the same time."
"And free the kingdom of the consequences of his good intentions? Chancellor Gilleran traced the king’s route with his gaze, otherwise completely still.
Nightfall waited, still seeing no need for his services.
"Don’t misunderstand me. I love both my sons." Rikard turned at the far end of his course and headed back again. "If I send Ned out, I have little doubt he’ll get himself killed within one moon cycle. If he doesn’t fall prey to footpads or schemers, his own overbearing virtue will offend the wrong person." He halted directly in front of Nightfall.
Nightfall could see potential in the king’s words, but he found it impossible to translate theory to practicality. Apparently, he wants me to protect Ned from the world and himself. But no one could be stupid enough to trust his son’s life to me.
"I want you to become Ned’s squire."
Nightfall blinked. Otherwise, he made no sound or motion. This is too good and too easy to be true. Immediately, his mind boggled with possibilities. It would prove simple enough to rob and murder the young prince. Once free, Nightfall would never be caged again.
"There are conditions, of course."
"Of course." Nightfall waited, seeing no reason not to promise anything, except for Gilleran’s truth spell. Still, he might get away with any carefully worded vow.
The king back-stepped, gesturing at Chancellor Gilleran. "As you may know, my adviser is a sorcerer."
Nightfall hid his aversion.
“He has a spell with a strange name I can’t pronounce. I call it oath-binding. The way it’s worked in the past, you and I agree to terms and Gilleran seals it with his spell."
Nightfall clutched his knees, now bothered enough to consider refusing the king’s offer on principle. He hated magic and sorcerers, and not just their abominable methods of gaining skills. Despised and feared by nearly everyone, sorcerers seemed devious, cruel, and twisted by the nature of their abilities and the obtainment of them. Yet his other option was certain death.
The king continued, “Should either of us break a condition of the spell, his soul would die by sorcery. As I understand it, that means eternal torment for the spirit, which would become the property of the sorcerer." He glanced at Gilleran, and Nightfall thought he saw Rikard shiver.
Gilleran remained still, looking like a washed-out caricature of a man, though his eyes revealed strength and joyful cruelty.
Nightfall presumed all of the terms of the oath would be placed on him, leaving no opportunity for the king to break a promise nor die in magical agony. “And these conditions?” he asked, not at all certain he wanted to know.
King Rikard pulled a rolled parchment from the pocket of his robe. Opening it, he read. "First, you will serve Prince Ned with his long-term, best interests in mind at all times." The king looked up. "You will be obedient to Ned. You will address him always as ‘Master’ and, to others, use his full name and title."
Nightfall frowned.
"But, where Ned’s judgment fails, your obedience to his welfare must always take precedence over obedience to his words, no matter the personal consequences."
I’m not calling any man “Master." Nightfall found the suggestion distasteful. “In other words, I have to do what’s best for him, even if he whips me for it."
King Rikard gave a wry chuckle. "Whipping is the last thing you have to worry about from Ned. He may try your patience to the edge of eternity, he may command you to do things that have no basis in any reality that supports common sense. But he won’t physically abuse you. That I can promise."
Gilleran tapped the king’s arm in warning.
"But I won’t," Rikard amended quickly. "For the purposes of the oath-bond, it would be best if I made no vows." He looked back at the parchment. "Second, you must see to it that Ned gets landed by Yrtish’s Harvest Moon."
Five months. Nightfall knew survival. He had paid no attention to methods of obtaining land and had little experience with politics, but he thought it better not to reveal his ignorance. Apparently, the king felt confident of Nightfall’s abilities and with good reason. If anyone could keep Ned alive and landed, I could.
"Third, you cannot harm or willingly cause or allow to be harmed Ned, Leyne, myself, Gilleran, or any noble, servant, or guardian of Alyndar’s court. And fourth, Nightfall is declared executed. You take a new name, identity, and appearance, and cannot tell anyone who you used to be."
“That’s it?" Nightfall asked sarcastically.
"That’s it," the king acknowledged.
Nightfall immediately found the gap in the plan. “And, once I’ve finished serving your son, you execute me."
"If you fulfill the provisions of this oath, if Ned is landed by Harvest Moon, the oath-bond is automatically dissolved. You become a free man with no debts or obligations and a chance to start life fresh. Since all conditions of the agreement disappear once the oath is gone, I can’t force lasting demands on you. It’s in my best interests to keep you happy, to give Nightfall no reason to reemerge. Do you agree to the terms?"
Nightfall considered. lf he refused, he would die. He found the thought of serving a guileless fool un
palatable; yet, at least, he would be a living servant. Possibly, he could find a way of escaping the terms of the oath-bond if he found himself unable to fulfill them. And I have to consider the possibility that the king is lying about the workings of the spell. That last thought haunted Nightfall, but magic was rare and every spell as different as the innate ability from which it sprang. Having no experience with this particular spell, he had no way of guessing its weaknesses. "May I ask some questions?"
"You may."
"When Ned becomes landed, I’m free of all parts of the oath-bond?"
“Correct."
“Am I also acquitted of all crimes?"
King Rikard hesitated. “Yes. At least in Alyndar, though that doesn’t give you freedom to commit more. So long as you take a new identity, I don’t think the other countries will try you either. They’ll take my word that Nightfall’s dead. And, in a manner of speaking, he will be. As I said, it’s in my best interest to keep you happy, to see that you have enough money and stature to prevent the need for murder or theft.”
That had an undeniable appeal. Survival had driven Nightfall to an unprecedented spree of crime. Status and wealth would mean he never had to sin again, and a new identity would end decades of running.
"What if one of us dies? Or the chancellor?"
King Rikard deferred the question to his sorcerer.
Gilleran cleared his throat. "Once cast, my life has no connection to the spell. My death or that of His Majesty, may the gods prevent it, will not affect the bond. Your death, of course, would dissolve it.” He barely moved his mouth as he talked, expressionless as a corpse, his eyes hollow and unrevealing. "Though it would gain you nothing."
Except a chance to die a normal death, instead of becoming a tormented soul bound to a sorcerer. Nightfall kept the thought to himself, though Gilleran answered it naturally.
"Don’t get any ideas about taking your own life the day before the deadline. Suicide violates any oath-bond. Your spirit would still belong to me."
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