The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 12

Once located, laughing in their den, Rivehn and Johastus lost their easy fortune to Nightfall’s silent talent. Nightfall crept away unseen, richer by not only his own money but theirs as well; and his theft did not disrupt their mirth nor their mocking comments about his naivete. Nightfall did not dally, gloat, or allow greed to drive him to foolishness. He simply took the two purses, equally full of the money they had won from him and one another in play, and headed surreptitiously back toward the Thirsty Dolphin.

Sunrise lit the sky a dull orange and pewter, and a steady glow suffused Trillium’s many roadways. The oath-bond buzzed a steady, dizzying cadence, a warning either that Nightfall had slipped too close to forbidden persona or that he had left Edward alone too long. In defense, Nightfall funneled his mind and goal fully on returning to the inn, an action that should appease the magic whatever its particular source. Shadows and alleys kept him well-hidden from the few folk about at first light. He found them simple to avoid. Most concentrated on tasks they needed to complete before the city came fully to life: loading carts for market, organizing shops for business, or hauling buckets of water for morning rituals or cooking.

By the time Nightfall arrived back at the stone and mortar building that served as Trillium’s rowdiest inn and tavern, he discovered a common room filled with travelers eating breakfast, including Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar who chatted with a small group of Trillians as he ate. The oath-bond abated enough to allow Nightfall other thought. Concern came first, that Edward would become too intrusive about his activities or punish him for not attending every need prior to his awakening. Nightfall knew he deserved the tongue-lashing, but he worried that another long, droning lesson might lull him to sleep, that lapse earning him two others. By its weight and his direct knowledge of the scam, he estimated that he now carried approximately two hundred silver. It seemed an unbelievable fortune, one he could not have attained on his own, at least not without falling fully into the demon guise. Still, he doubted Finndmer would accept the lesser amount as payment for the land as much as he felt certain Edward would not allow him another night of gambling. Somehow, he would need to make up the difference.

Nightfall headed directly for Prince Edward’s table, trying to look suitably agitated and repentant. He made a show of directing his attention fully on his master, though he studied the others from the corner of his eye. He knew the best dressed of the men at a glance, a horse trader by the name of Gerbrant. Though aggressive when it came to sales, the merchant had always seemed reasonably honest. He enjoyed taking chances as much as any man, though I Nightfall had never known him to rig the odds or cheat a customer he liked. He did, however, tend to overlook the flaws in his own animals. The other two worked for him, and both had placed a few small bets the previous night in the tavern.

Nightfall bowed, head low, looking appropriately humble. "Master, I’m sorry. I went out to… well, to… relieve myself. And I got to looking around and took a walk and lost track of time…"

Edward waved his squire silent, then gestured at the only empty chair at the table. "No harm done, Sudian. Sit." Nightfall obeyed, still keeping his head down and attentive only to his master. A plate of fried eggs and bread lay in front of the prince, steam carrying its fragrance to Nightfall’s nose. Though hungry, he did not know whether his stomach could stand food after a night of excitement and beer, though he had practiced caution and moderation. The implications of the evening maddened him. If anyone with authority connected him with Amadan’s death, they would undoubtedly hang him. Should Rivehn and Johastus have underground connections, Nightfall would again find himself endangered by the myriad connections that had once served as the closest things to friends. Even should he survive the oath-bond, his new freedom might buy him a life worse than the one he had had: a lowbom hunted by authorities and criminals alike. But this time, he could not hide behind disguises and aliases, his true appearance no longer a haven.

Edward signaled one of the barmaids to bring Nightfall breakfast. "This is my squire, Sudian."

Gerbrant acknowledged Nightfall with a preoccupied nod. His companions smiled, and one spoke before his employer. "I know Sudian well. And so does my copper." They both laughed.

Nightfall glanced up, keeping his grin sheepish and avoiding Edward’s eyes. He hardly thought sharing a round of beer translated to "knowing well," but it fit the gibe.

"Are you going to drop some money on the race?" the other asked. “You were quick enough for everything else."

Nightfall crinkled his brow, confused by the question. "Race?"

The prince looked from workers to squire, still obviously uncertain about their connection. He explained. “Gerbrant, has a fast horse. A longtime competitor challenged him to a race, and it’s happening this afternoon."

The first worker spoke again. “Other fellow’s so underconfident, he beat up our jockey." He laughed inappropriately, adding quickly, "Didn’t work, though. Samma’s small, but he punches all right for a little one."

"Got away with a few scrapes and bruises," the other finished. "We’ve kept him locked up safe since then. Got guards on Dash-that’s the horse-too."

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 naivete 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 himself 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.

Nightfall 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 oathbond. 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.

As they approached the edge of the described land purchase, Nightfall went quiet along with his master. Trees grew in random patterns, as the wind had blown their seeds decades previously. A welcoming carpet of bluish grass paved their way, spreading over the stretch of ground as far as Nightfall could see. To him it seemed the most beautiful place in the world.

Nightfall whooped, driving his horse suddenly into a canter. It balked, then, apparently trusting its rider, sprang forward at his urgings.

"Sudian, stop! Wait!" Edward shouted, too late.

The bay mare glided for a few strides, driven more by collective momentum than individual strides. Then, its hooves struck more solidly, and the ground seemed to fold beneath it. Its legs sank into a watery muck; and it floundered, twisting and flailing in a panicked frenzy. Though equally surprised, Nightfall recovered his senses instantly, trying to calm the wild lurches of his mount. The mud sucked them both deeper burying the horse to its chest and Nightfall’s legs to the thighs. He swore, using the reins to regain control. The horse stilled, clearly stuck, yet not miring any further.

Now, Nightfall recognized the trees as high-rooted, broad-leafed crenyons; and it amazed him that he had not noticed these before. The blue-green covering he had mistaken for grass now seemed obviously slime-slicked mud and water. He stared, stricken to silence as much from shock as the realization that swampland could never serve his master’s purposes. By Finndmer’s definition, Edward would need to build a keep and outbuildings to become truly landed, and this moor could never hold a building. A paralyzing swirl of emotion struck Nightfall at once; general rage mingled with disappointment and self-directed anger. His ignorance about land had allowed him to become as much a victim of this scam as the horse owners had been of his. More so, because they had no way to guess his weight-shifting talent. As if to add insult, the oath-bond plunged back into full force, driving a pain through him that only added to the irritation and confusion.

Prince Edward dismounted, staring at his squire as if he had performed the stupidest act in existence. Under the circumstances, Nightfall had to agree with his master’s unspoken assessment. "Are you hurt?" the prince asked.

"No." Nightfall tried to extricate a foot from the mud and met more resistance than he expected. He guessed that he might work his way free by leaving his boot in place, but he would have to fight his way back through muck that might close over his head. "Just stuck, Master."

"Why, in the Father’s good name, did you ride into a swamp?" Prince Edward asked the obvious, though irritating, question.

The horse remained still, its struggles futile. Both ears lay flat backward in fear or agitation. Nightfall turned his attention from trying to concoct a plan of escape to answer Edward’s query. "I didn’t realize it was swamp."

"Wasn’t it obvious?"

"Not to me, Master." Nightfall glanced around, incredulous at his own stupidity. Though aware that excitement could blind a man to danger, he found himself unable to believe that his mind had drawn such an elaborate illusion. "At least not before."

"It’s obvious now."

Nightfall quelled rising sarcasm. This did not seem like a good time for inane conversation. “Yes, Master. It’s obvious now."

Prince Edward sat back on his haunches. Nightfall and the horse lay well beyond his reach. "What can I do to help?"

Nightfall shook his head, uncertain, assessing the situation cautiously. If Edward got a rope from the pack horse’s burden, they could probably work it around the bay’s neck. In the subsequent bout of thrashing and squirming, they might manage to pull it free, if it did not throttle itself first or break a leg in its frenzy. One thing seemed certain. Nightfall had no intention of remaining on the animal’s back while it lashed about in wild panic. And, for now, it served as a base and an island. Nightfall reached down and scooped up a handful of rich, brown mud, ripe with the odors of detritus and sulfur. The idea of swimming through that muck disgusted him, yet the best plan of action seemed obvious. If he wrapped the rope around himself first, Edward could pull him free and they might rescue the horse together. Still, he knew nothing about swamp sludge and its properties, and it only made sense to ascertain that it would not drown or poison him before attempting to fight his way through it. "Master, do you know about this stuff?" He flung the mud he had scooped back to where it had come from. "Will it suck us under like a whirlpool? Does it harm flesh?" He added quickly, responding to the oath-bond, “Just don’t come any closer, please, Master. I don’t want you hurt."

The mare gave a mighty heave that raised horse and rider over the swamp for a moment, then she fell back with a watery splash that sprayed mud over Nightfall from head to waist. She fought madly for several moments, legs churning mud in futility. When she settled, and Nightfall managed to turn his attention back to shore, he found Edward reading the book he had packed. Nightfall stared in surprise, scarcely daring to believe Edward had chosen this moment to entertain himself. "Master?"

Edward looked up. "What color is the mud?"

What color is the mud! Incredulity made Nightfall bitter, and he quelled the instinct to become flippant. "Mud-colored, l guess, Master. A brown-green color. With a bit of blue in swirls."

“Blue." Edward returned to his book, flipped a few pages, and read. "Charseusan."

"What?"

"Charseusan blue-green swamp mud. That’s the name of what you’re stuck in."

Oh, well, thanks. It makes things a lot easier now that I’m on a name basis with filth. The irony penetrated despite his predicament. Associations with slime were nothing new to Nightfall.

“It’s called for the charseus plant, a blue-green grass/algae that can live over or under water. The mud’s mostly made up of dying plants and other dead things. The blue-green comes from the live charseus plant." He turned another page. "Oh, interesting. The live plant makes lots of air. That’s why there’re so many bubbles just under the surface of the mud."

I don’t believe this. I don’t, may the Father damn my soul, believe he’s giving a nature lesson while I’m stuck ass deep in swamp mud. Nightfall corrected himself. That’s Charseusan blue-green swamp mud. “Master, this is all very interesting. But my horse and I can’t get out."

Edward did not bother to look up from his book. "Don’t worry. It’s just regular mud. It’s not going to pull you deeper so long as you don’t struggle at random. You do know how to swim, I presume?"

Oh, yes. My governess, steward, and handmaiden taught me while they bathed me. Nightfall had learned the basics of keeping afloat from the paranoia that someone might someday try to drown him. He had perfected his stroke as Marak, frolicking with his sailor buddies when the ship lay in irons. "Well enough, Master. But I worry for my horse. She’s afraid, so she’s fighting crazed and aimless. She’s a lot heavier than I am, too." “Only by your choice." The vaguely familiar voice came from the solid ground to Prince Edward’s right. A figure emerged from the sparse crenyon forest. Curly hair and a well-groomed beard offset soft features betrayed only by the dark, predatory eyes Nightfall knew well enough. Once before, he had studied the face, when this man had steadied him in the town of Nemix and, apparently, learned about his natal talent. The sorcerer wore linens appropriate for travel, though tailored to a rich man’s fancy; and Nightfall cursed the thieving instincts that forced him to notice the two silver rings on his ringers. Looking away from the man’s gaze now would demonstrate fear and feed the murderer’s confidence. At this distance, the hands could not harm him, unless they hurled some magic he had no means of fathoming. "You could weigh more than she if you wished."

Prince Edward returned to his mount and replaced the book in his pack, ignorant of the danger posed by the newcomer.

Nightfall played innocent. "Weigh more than a horse?" He laughed, trying not to let it sound too strained, while his eyes measured the distance to shore. "I’d have to devour a hundred feasts and quickly."

The sorcerer was unamused. Although a slight smile curved onto his features, all gentleness disappeared from his manner.

Edward leaned against his gelding. "Since my squire is indisposed, I will make the introductions. I am Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, and this…" He gestured politely at Nightfall. "… is Sudian." He turned his full attention to the newcomer, brows raised for the appropriate response.

Though appalled by his master’s obliviousness, Nightfall appreciated it. The prince’s frivolous conversation might keep the sorcerer distracted long enough for Nightfall to formulate an escape. Cautiously, he eased his leg over the saddle, the movement slow and deliberate, designed not to draw attention. He tried to slip gently from the animal’s back but managed only to bury his own body, chest-deep, in mud sticky as glue and heavy as scale weights. One hand plunged deep into the muck for balance. He managed to save the other by clinging to the cantle. The horse floundered into another bucking attempt at freedom, and a hoof slammed Nightfall’s knee hard enough to incapacitate him. Without the cushion of mud, it would have shattered the bone for certain. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain to diminish.

The sorcerer’s gaze followed Nightfall’s course. His stance displayed assurance, and his features twisted in obvious amusement. For now, he played along with Edward. "You may call me Ritworth the Iceman. I’ve come for your squire."

"My squire?" Edward glanced briefly at Nightfall, then back at their guest. "My squire has enough to do tending me. His services aren’t for hire."

"It’s not his services I’m after." His grin became more I like a rictus. "It’s his soul."

The words struck Edward dumb, and he frowned in consideration. A chill swept Nightfall, as crisp and painful as the coldest winter night. It made little sense for the sorcerer to reveal himself this way, and he seemed too smart to make such an obvious mistake. Accustomed to reading motives, Nightfall put the pieces together quickly. He recalled the Healer’s description of the sorcerer’s ceremony in Delfor, how pain had driven a dying man’s natal ability to the surface. It seemed a small jump to guess that not just physical agony, but intense emotional trauma, could affect one of the talented in the same fashion. Clearly, Ritworth planned to send Nightfall into a panic, thereby drawing his gift to the surface. The torture would come later, amid the final tearing of soul from body.

The idea brought a rush of the very terror Nightfall knew he had to suppress. Even as he struggled to drive it down, the oath-bond fluttered to noisy, painful life within him, an ear-splitting alarm that made action all but impossible. Nightfall gasped, the agony in his head scarcely bearable. For an instant he wondered if the sorcerer had used a spell to create the pain, but his heart told him otherwise. It came of other, more familiar magic; and he traced the thought that had reawakened Gilleran’s handiwork. It came in an instant. There could be only one reason Ritworth had so casually revealed himself to Edward. The sorcerer planned to kill the prince.

Irony only intensified the excruciating mixture of headache and hysteria. One magic must drive him to chase away the only man who might rescue him from the other. Either way would cost his soul eternal torment, yet one could spare the life of a man he was growing to like. He gathered breath to shout, mud yielding to the expansion of his rib cage. “Master, run! Run! Save yourself!"

The oath-bond receded, allowing thought to trickle in, accompanied by an uncontrollable fear. As his vision cleared, he saw Ritworth shout something uninterpretable, finger pointed at Edward.

"Run!" Nightfall shouted again, flopping into the swamp mud for a desperate run to shore. The muck closed around him, swallowing him into its depths, and he managed to move less than an arm’s length from the horse in the time it took Ritworth to cast his spell.

Prince Edward drew his sword and ducked at once, using the gelding as a shield. Something radiant struck the side of the white’s head, back-splashing in sparks and droplets like iridescent liquid. The horse went still, his eyes locked wide with raw terror and shock. Frost formed on ear hairs and whiskers, then the magically frozen head shattered into fragments on the ground, and blood pooled from a neck that seemed more glass than flesh.

For an instant, time stood still. "Holy Father,” Prince Edward said in awe, and his voice seemed loud in the sudden hush. Nightfall grabbed desperately for any object of substance, groping through the thick, unyielding mud. The daggers in his leg and boot sheaths had become buried beyond hope, and he fished for tunic pockets washed askew. The sorcerer’s head lowered, and he mumbled, apparently tapping captured souls for another spell. The oath-bond became a constant scream that bounced agony through Nightfall’s brain. He touched some object in the sludge, and his fingers winched desperately around it. It gave, nothing more than a fragile stem. Through a fog of disappointment, Nightfall kept his hand tight around the ball of mud. It would not kill, but it might distract. He hurled it at the sorcerer. "Damn it!" he screamed. "Run! Save yourself, or he’ll kill us both. Just run!"

More from habit than effort, Nightfall’s aim was true. The mudball slopped onto Ritworth’s chest, and glowing strands in multiple colors rocked like a rainbow from his fist, sputtering randomly to the ground. A few strands brushed their creator, and he flinched from their touch, barking curses that bore little relation to the grating language that called his magic. He glanced at Nightfall, anger only making him appear larger and more savage.

Prince Edward bolted for the shelter of the forest.

At the movement, Ritworth spun. He shaped more sorcery, his words a dull growl. Nightfall blessed the delay that came of using power stolen by murder rather than chance of birth. He hoped Dyfrin’s other theory also proved true, that each use of the spell loosened a sorcerer’s tie to his victim until the soul broke free and the talent with it. It would make Ritworth more sparing of his abilities. Nightfall hurled another mudball. Again, he hit his target, this time in the back; but Ritworth anticipated the missile, managing to finish and launch his magic at Edward’s retreating form. Skewed by the force of the blow, or some diversion from the prince, the ice attack crashed into a tree. A white explosion of light spread from the impact, and the tree groaned and swayed, a chunk of its form nearly opaque. Edward disappeared into the brush.

The oath-bond washed back to baseline, leaving Nightfall mercifully clear-headed. Likely, the sorcerer had only a small repertoire of spells, those he had managed to discover and wrest from their innocent owners. Most of those would prove useless for attack or defense. Still, he only needed the ice magics to kill; and, from the Healer’s description, the pain he inflicted could come of more mundane means. Nightfall thrashed at the mud with coordinated movements, managing to eel toward shore only slightly before the sorcerer’s dark gaze pinned him and the death-mask smile returned. Ritworth laughed, the sound rich with evil.

Despite his best efforts, terror flashed through Nightfall. He clung to stability and practicality; he knew fear and had never allowed it to rule or paralyze him before. Needing a grounding point, he wondered how much practice it had taken the sorcerer to perfect such an ugly sound. Still feigning ignorance, he ceased struggling and met the sorcerer’s icy glare with the blue-black eyes that had demoralized so many. "What do you want with us?"

"I want your talent, Sudian Edward’s squire." Ritworth strode to the edge of the swamp, careful not to step too close to the banks. "It’s no use pretending. I know it’s there. I can feel it."

A force colder than metal in a blizzard brushed Nightfall’s consciousness. Though it scarcely touched him, it spiraled a chill through his entire body. He forced consideration, afraid to sacrifice directed thought for the emotion that would make the sorcerer’s task simpler. He knew that users of magic could not sweep minds continuously; too many of the natally talented successfully hid their abilities for that to be the case. Apparently, such action required an imprisoned or otherwise stationary target and/or a high degree of suspicion. Or, perhaps, it first necessitated fear, pain, or serious mental agitation. Nightfall suspected that the agony caused by the oath-bond had proven his undoing. Now, he fought down the rage and horror inspired by Ritworth and the carelessness that had sent him plunging into a swamp. He would need to act solely from logic and react only in a dispassionate manner to all that happened next. He would have to learn quickly to disconnect pain from the emotions it inspired.

Sidetracked into feeling only with his intellect, Nightfall took a moment to consider the mistakes he had already made. Clearly, he should have interrupted Prince Edward sooner and begun the extraction of self and horse from the swamp. Incredulity at Edward’s use of a book in such a situation and ignorance of the full extent of danger had played a hand in the delay. He also suspected that Ritworth had not simply come along at the precise moment he showed himself. Finndmer had sold them out; no one else knew their destination. The old fence had collected his money in every possible way: Ritworth’s information fee, then Nightfall’s payment for diversion, the sale of land suitable only for stonejaw turtles and snakes, and finally the finder’s fee to the Iceman upon his return. Replaying his plunge into swamp mud, Nightfall only felt more certain of the solid ground his eyes had seen; and he guessed Ritworth had used some kind of sight magic on him that had spared Edward. The prince had seen the swamp quite plainly. Lastly, Nightfall cursed himself for leaping into the swamp mud without freeing his daggers first. That, he could blame on no one but himself.

Ritworth pointed a finger at the stretch of swamp between himself and Nightfall. He mumbled the same arcane syllables as previously, and the part closest to the bank froze into a solid clump. "Your master won’t get far on foot. Once I’m finished with you, I’ll kill him before he can reach Noshtillan." He stepped onto the newly created bridge and aimed the finger to craft an extension of his frozen path. "You know that, don’t you?" The nasty grin seemed to have become permanent.

“I know you’re a murdering, conscienceless bastard.” Nightfall returned the smile, as detached as possible from emotion. "Is that the same thing?" Apparently Ritworth had bought Nightfall’s fawning, selfless squire act as had everyone else and expected threats against Edward’s life to rile him more than those against his own. That boded well for attempts to catch the sorcerer off-guard, assuming strategy mattered at all. Locked in mud, Nightfall sought a means to escape. He lowered his weight, hoping it would keep him from sinking any deeper.

The next block of ground froze, leaving only one more area before Ritworth came close enough to easily fling spells or objects at Nightfall. "Life is what it is. If the Father intended us to respect other’s lives, he wouldn’t have made them so simple to take nor some of us so much more powerful than others." He bridged the final gap.

Nightfall waited, coiled. Many options paraded before him, most dependent upon the sorcerer’s course of action. It would prove easy enough to freeze Nightfall’s head, as he had the horse’s; but that would kill instantly and lose him the soul he had stalked. Freezing the mud around Nightfall would almost certainly cut him in half, again bringing shock and death too quickly. Anything short of magic that Ritworth chose to throw Nightfall believed he could rebound even from his awkward position. He had no way to guess what other powers the wizard might possess and, thus, no means to prepare to counter them. His lighter form gave him more mobility, and he searched diligently for the pockets and lining of his tunic and the daggers secreted within. He doubted he could throw well enough to kill the wizard without dying himself, but a regular death seemed far preferable to the permanent hell promised by the sorcerer’s ceremony.

Ritworth stepped closer, gaze locked on Nightfall. He knelt, scooping blue-green swamp mud into his palm, then shaping the mass into a crude figure of a man. He mumbled as he worked. He glanced at Nightfall every few seconds, keeping track of every movement though it took time and accuracy from his molding. He rose, holding his creation before him. With his free hand, he fumbled a dagger from his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching a firm hold on the hilt.

Nightfall steadied himself, prepared. Blades, at least, he understood.

But Ritworth had witnessed most of the battle in Grittmon’s Tavern, and he did not hurl the weapon. Instead, he scratched the tip of the blade along the figure. Apparently, some magic had gone into its crafting because it remained whole in the sorcerer’s hand and did not crumble as drying mud usually did. He gauged Nightfall’s lack of reaction, then stepped to the edge of his safely frozen ground.

Nightfall tensed, guessing the mudman somehow represented himself. Apparently, it required construction from ground he was touching and also a proper proximity. Otherwise, he felt certain Ritworth would have used the technique on him previously. He wriggled backward in retreat, the movement maddeningly slow, adjusting his weight to find a balance between hampering and propulsion.

The next sequence of blade through mud also tore his chest like fire. He screamed without intention, and agony forced him to catch his breath. For an instant, he felt the wizard’s presence within him, reaching for a talent driven by pain from the core. Nightfall heaved his concentration aside, focusing on whatever other issues he could dredge to mind. For no reason he could fathom, Edward’s lesson filled his thoughts, cycling endlessly. Charseusan blue-green swamp mud. That is the name of what you’re stuck in. A glimpse down his tunic showed him flesh unaffected by the magic. No blood had actually been drawn, only the pain that accompanied such a wound. He inched backward as fast as the mud allowed.

Ritworth laughed again, the sound pitched to inspire terror. He jabbed the knife blade deep into the mudman’s gut.

Pain skewered Nightfall, and the memories cycled, still present but no longer under his control. It’s called for the charseus plant, a blue-green grass/algae that can live over or under water. The mud’s mostly made up of dying plants and other dead things. Nightfall clutched at his gut, scarcely daring to believe his intestines still hung safely in his body. DEAD THINGS. He writhed, scuttling farther backward, and the suffering disappeared. Apparently, he had managed to work himself beyond range of the spell. Seizing the sudden reprieve, he gave another heave. His spine crashed against something solid, jarring him to the teeth. Surprised more than hurt, he glanced at the object he had hit, the bay mare half-submerged in swamp mud. The blue-green comes from the live charseus plant.

Ritworth swore, then laughed again. He cast another of his freezing spells, gaining him several steps closer to Nightfall, now trapped against his beast. "Too easy." He drove the dagger deep into the mud figure’s groin, twisting as if to sever every organ.

Spasms racked Nightfall, the pain beyond any he had known. Had the damage been real, he would have surrendered to oblivion. Now he knew only the agony, his single need a quick death. He felt Ritworth’s presence join his own, felt the other tug and pull at a mind-set flying for the surface, trebling pain that already seemed long beyond his ability to bear. He screamed again, doubling over so suddenly his face slopped into the goo. His thoughts ran without him. The live plant makes lots of air. That’s why there’re so many bubbles just under the surface of the mud. The words meant nothing now, but the desperate, gasping breaths he took to fill his lungs with mud and end his life did. Air funneled in, accompanied only by a thin stream of choking dirt. You do know how to swim, I presume?

Somehow, Nightfall managed to suck in bubbles without choking too violently on the slime that accompanied them. His legs felt liquid, but he pressed them against the horse’s side. The torture became an all-encompassing universe, the flaying of soul and talent from body an agony so fierce it would not dull. Yet, his mind clung to the realization that distancing himself from the sorcerer would stop the pain. Using the horse as a springboard, he launched himself at an angle toward the bank. His hands and legs flailed and hunched like a frog’s. Beneath the surface of the swamp mud, he held his breath and swam, finally gasping in a lungful of bubbles when the need for air became too desperate.

The body pain vanished first, and Nightfall felt the sorcerer’s grip slipping as his weight-shifting talent receded back toward the core. Still bound with Ritworth, he felt the sorcerer’s enormous rage and frustration as his own. The magical grip clenched tighter, clinging to the gift it almost had. Then, abruptly, the hold disappeared, and surprise replaced the anger.

Nightfall clawed his way to the surface, gagging and sputtering on the mud he had forced his lungs to bear. He smeared stinging muck from his eyes in time to see Prince Edward’s follow-through sword stroke, an attack that had, apparently, missed its target. Nightfall had come within a long arm’s reach of the bank. Ritworth gathered power, presumably for his ice spell while the prince tensed for another attack.

Nightfall scarcely noticed the jangle of the oath-bond, the once-excruciating pain seeming minuscule in the wake of so much more. He scrambled to shore, fighting legs that seemed too weak to carry him. His muscles did not properly obey. He tripped, falling flat on his face. Spell and sword leapt forth at once. Though surely intended for Edward, the Iceman’s sorceries struck his blade instead. Edward dropped a weapon suddenly too cold to handle. It struck the ground, exploding into splinters. Nightfall scrabbled to his feet, now seizing one of the daggers he had not managed to locate while encased in swamp. He hurled it for the back of the sorcerer’s neck.

But mud weighted the blade, making its flight unpredictable. It struck Ritworth’s arm, dull edge leading, just as Edward bore in with bare fists. The wizard spoke a harsh word and flapped his hands. His body rose from the ground, and he flew over Edward’s head toward the safety of the forest. The prince sprang back. Nightfall threw his last two throwing knives. The first pierced the air a split second behind the soaring sorcerer, the blade plummeting into the swamp. The second missed cleanly as Ritworth swept from sight.

The goading throb of the oath-bond lessened to its usual tingle, and the near absence of pain seemed a joy and comfort beyond anything Nightfall had known. He headed for the pack horse, digging rope from the bundle and ignoring the flopped body of Snow. He had wanted to rid them of the gelding’s nervous presence forever, it seemed, yet never in this fashion. He could not help feeling guilty for the thoughts he had held against it in much the same way he felt his own wishes had caused his mother’s death. For now, he needed to concentrate on freeing his mount.

Prince Edward headed back down the frozen pathway. "Are you badly hurt?”

“No, Master. Just shaken. I’ll be fine." Nightfall continued freeing the rope as feeling returned to his body.

Edward drew closer, glancing around for Ritworth’s return.

Nightfall did not trouble himself to do the same, trusting the trained perception that came from years of living on the street to alert him to danger. Never again would he allow illusion, excitement, and frustration to blunt that necessary sixth sense he needed for survival.

The prince drew up beside his squire. "Why does a sorcerer want your soul?”

Nightfall coiled the rope, forming a loop to catch the bay mare. He glanced at Edward, knowing the prince had grown up with a sorcerer as his father’s adviser and certain even this sheltered youth had heard rumors. Denial would gain him nothing, only distance him from the trust he had sought to gain and mostly succeeded. The sorcerer’s claims had already revealed too much. "Master, I didn’t mean to hide anything from you. The fewer who know about my ability, the better. A word in the wrong place… if a sorcerer overheard… or one who would sell information to sorcerers…" He rolled a sad gaze to Edward, continuing his work with the rope but letting the thought trail. "I’ve never told anyone before." Except a vicious, back-stabbing whore who sold me to your father.

Prince Edward fell silent for several moments, absently looping the extra rope, assisting his squire unconsciously. "I understand." He frowned. "So who told this sorcerer?"

"No one," Nightfall admitted. "He watched me closely enough to figure it out on his own." He tossed the loop, missing the horse by a hand’s breadth. In response, the mare resumed her struggles, battering at the mud with hooves exhausted from the fight. He wound the rope back for another try.

"It doesn’t matter, you know." Edward continued his search for the returning sorcerer. "Servant or equal, I’m not going to abandon you when the next sorcerer comes either."

"Thank you, Master; but your life has to come first. If I thought others would come, I’d leave you." Nightfall threw the lasso again. It landed just in front of the animal’s ears and around the back of her head, and he coaxed it to slide along her nose. His own loyalty made sense. He little understood Edward’s, however. Any other noble would have sacrificed his squire to preserve himself without need for a moment’s consideration. Why did he come back? What does he hope to gain from me? "At the least, sorcerers have to compete too much to discuss their quarry with one another. We may see the Iceman again, but I don’t think others will attack."

{The rope jerked into place around the horse’s neck.

Edward considered. "Now that I know, what is this talent of yours?"

Nightfall concentrated on the rope, believing the prince had earned the right to know but hedged by the memory of Kelryn’s betrayal. "It helps me ride horses," he said, not quite lying. He tugged at the rope, aware he did not have the strength to pull the beast free himself yet wowing better than to request the aid of his master.

Prince Edward came over to help anyway.