The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 14

The dance hall looked familiar in the moonlight, its many wings jutting like insect legs into the night. Nightfall watched Prince Edward and Kelryn amble toward the main doorway, still discussing him, though the theme had changed from his history to his personality. They talked about his loyalty, generosity, and the honesty that bordered on brutality. The description seemed so opposite the usual hatred and grudging respect applied to him, he repeatedly suspected they had switched topics. But always, just as he became certain he had missed a reference, he recognized the name "Sudian" or a specific that could only apply to himself. All of the examples they used were true, the motivations they ascribed to him far less so. Prince Edward always found the best in anyone, and it bothered Nightfall that Kelryn seemed sometimes to know him better than he knew himself.

Despite his discomfort and the rage that waned only slightly with time, Nightfall remained aware of all sound and movement around him. As they passed the dancers’ quarters, something seemed amiss or, at least, different from his inspection earlier that evening. A brief study from a distance brought him the early details he sought. The painted-closed shutters to Kelryn’s window seemed changed in contour, and he caught a glimpse of fragments of a shiny substance on the ground beneath it. While the prince and dancer headed for the entrance, Nightfall crept up for a closer inspection.

As Nightfall drew nearer, he recognized glass shards sparkling like dew amid the grass spears. He frowned at the oddity. Even castle glass was rarely thin enough to allow a clear view, and the thicker, more poorly made the pane, the more difficult to break. The dance hall windows had seemed particularly shoddy on first scrutiny. Also, the pieces seemed oddly shaped for glass: tiny droplets that clung to the greenery, long dribbles that dangled through the shutters, and flat oblong chunks that seemed more to have coalesced than to have shattered. Alert, he slunk to the window and picked up a particle. It felt slick and dry, just as he expected from glass, though colder to the touch than the late spring air could explain. Now, too, he saw the shutter. The bottom right corner had broken, and chunks of wood interspersed with the glass in similar patterns. Dribbles of glass striped his vision, closing off a hole large enough to admit a person.

Dread began as a gnawing in Nightfall’s gut, growing into a pain fed by his own concern as well as the oath-bond. The image of the horse’s head splintering near the swamp filled his mind’s eye and could not be suppressed. Ritworth’s spell had left gore in patterns no mortal weapon could have reaped. Patterns like the shutter and the window.

Agony swept over Nightfall, nearly paralyzing him. He glanced at Prince Edward and Kelryn, just in time to watch the main door swing closed. Too late. Nightfall knew that by the time he caught up, raced inside, and fought his way past the guards, anything could have happened. If the Iceman had squeezed through, Nightfall could do so as well. He might more easily assess the danger from the window than the door; surely whatever trap Ritworth might have set would 'spring so as to catch someone entering in a normal fashion. He just had to hope he could appraise the situation and remedy or warn in time. His fear washed cold at the realization that neither he nor Edward had carried obvious weaponry to dinner. The two remaining throwing daggers he had secreted on his person would have to suffice.

Nightfall crouched, gradually rising until he could just peer through the window. Across the room, the door remained closed. The dresser/table filled the corner nearest it. The largest pieces of the swan lay piled on its center, the splinters and shards around them. Beside it perched a glass decanter of a grayish, translucent liquid that he guessed might be a watery glue. The matching chair rested slightly askew, a dress folded neatly over its back. The bed lay flush with the wall to Nightfall’s right. To his left, he caught a poorly angled view of the inset closet, barely able to make out the edges of fabric from garments set within it. Nightfall frowned. Nothing seemed specifically out of place, which only made him more uncomfortable. Magical ambushes he would not necessarily see; and, if Ritworth wove his danger in the hallway, Nightfall might already be too late. He raised his head fully for a more direct view. At that moment, the door lock clicked open. Something inside the closet moved.

Standing outside the door to Kelryn’s chambers, Prince Edward could not recall having enjoyed a night more. Their conversation did not matter. Her attentiveness to his words and genuine interest had spurred his emotions as few other things could. Since his mother’s death, his every conversation seemed to elicit only servant-loyal boredom or disdain from his brother or father. Kelryn had attended his words with a brightness that revealed fascination, and he clung to her words just as tightly. And, always, the image of Kelryn’s smoothly rounded curves remained burned in his memory. He had never seen a woman naked before, except in art, and the painters and weavers had never captured the perfect reality of breasts and thighs. The mental picture drove Edward to the need to chisel the female form from marble, to capture the beauty no previous artisan had managed.

Kelryn jerked the key from the lock, pocketed it, and shoved the bolt aside. She turned to face Edward before opening the panel. "Thank you so much for the dinner and the company. Please tell Sudian good night for me, too."

"The company was my pleasure as well." Prince Edward pushed open the door to allow Kelryn access. It admitted a bar of light from candles in sconces in the hallway. Movement caught Edward’s attention at once. A man unfolded a long, lean frame from the closet inset, the sorcerer’s face sparking instant recognition.

"You’re dead, boy!" Ritworth’s arm arched, and he grumbled the familiar, sour syllables of his ice spell.

Prince Edward shoved Kelryn aside and grabbed for the chair, moving from the hips first as his fight instructor taught. In situations requiring instant evasion, that part of the body tended to lag. Still, he doubted he could outmaneuver magic. As quickly, Kelryn pulled a tie at her throat. Her dress dropped to the floor in a rumpled heap, revealing flimsy undergarments that somehow made her seem more naked than flesh alone.

Her maneuver obviously surprised Ritworth, who hesitated just long enough for Edward to seize and hurl the chair.

The sorcerer dodged and swore as he finished the casting. Magic swept the desktop, an unfocused slash of light that flung swan shards to the floor. The chair grazed Ritworth’s shoulder, staggering him, then crashed against the window with enough force to shatter both. Splinters and chunks rained, thunking to the floor amid the higher pitched slam and rattle of glass. From outside, a dagger whizzed by Ritworth’s chin. The hilt bounced from Kelryn’s arm, then it clattered to the hallway floor. Suddenly filled with ice, the decanter exploded, flinging slivers and triangles of glass. Kelryn screamed. A guard’s answering shout floated from down the hallway, and feet pounded the wooden floor, headed in their direction.

Kelryn shrieked again and again, exploding into a mindless, berserk panic that seemed all the more crazed for her calm diversion a moment earlier.

Though he noticed the change, Prince Edward did not waste time assessing damage. The sorcerer had come for him, and any attempt to console or aid Kelryn would only place her in the line of fire. The sooner he dispatched Ritworth, the safer they all became. He charged the Iceman, fragments of swan, decanter, and window crunching beneath his boots.

The sorcerer caught his balance just in time to notice the danger rushing down on him. He twisted, casting, the need to dodge stealing accuracy. Ice sprayed from his fingertips and sparkled like dust motes in the room’s center, a clean miss. Hoping to prevent the harsh vocalizations that seemed necessary for the spell, Edward drove a punch into the sorcerer’s throat that doubled him over. Seizing Ritworth’s neck in one hand and a leg in the other, he hurled the sorcerer toward the wall.

Ritworth sailed through the air, grunting guttural noises that were not quite words. He flapped. A hand’s breadth from the wall, he swerved abruptly, flying toward the broken window at a speed that sent him crashing through the last clinging shards of glass and wood. Just outside, he collided with a man, and both collapsed in a heap to the dirt. Edward ran to the window. As he peered through, blood splashed his face from the battle outside. He recoiled, wiping it from his eyes. By the time he looked again, Ritworth was soaring for the sky. Nightfall crouched amid a puddle of broken glass and ruptured shutters, shards sparkling in his red-brown hair. He clutched a dagger flecked with the sorcerer’s blood.

"Sudian?" Surprised by the presence of his squire, Prince Edward reached through the opening to give assistance.

A man spoke from the doorway. "What’s going on?"

Edward turned his head, arm still extended. A hefty guard waited just outside, wearing dance hall red and black livery, hand tensed on the hilt of his short sword.

Kelryn cowered in a corner, using her dress as a shield and sobbing uncontrollably. Blood trickled from her leg.

"Did this man hurt you‘?" The guard indicated the prince by inclining his head.

Widened eyes locked on the window through which Ritworth had disappeared, Kelryn shook her head. Relaxing slightly, she managed speech. "Prince Edward of Alyndar? Dear Father, no. He saved my life." She managed a smile for Edward that made him feel warm from chin to knees, though the obvious pain in her tone bothered him. "A stranger attacked us. A sorcerer. He fled through the window."

Nightfall chose that moment to crawl into the room, ignoring Edward’s proffered hand.

The guard stiffened, drawing his sword. "Is this the one?"

Kelryn stiffened, swiveling to look. At the sight of Nightfall, she breathed a relieved sigh. "Oh, no. That’s the prince’s squire. The sorcerer is gone, I hope." Her own assessment helped compose her. She donned her dress methodically. Limping to the desk, she studied the chaos of glass on its surface, then leaned against it without daring to sit.

The guard sheathed his weapon, looking nonplussed. Apparently, it bothered him that so much damage could occur before he responded to screaming. "Oh. Well. We’ll search around outside. See if we can find him. What’d he look like?"

Kelryn gave a passable description; and, having seen the man twice now, Edward filled in the details. The guard exited, leaving Kelryn, Edward, and Nightfall alone.

Nightfall shook out his cloak, and a shower of glass fragments tumbled to the floor to join the others. He brushed more from his hair with flicks of his hand.

"There’s a broom in the closet,"’ Kelryn said. "Let me get it."

“No." Edward went to Kelryn’s side. "You’re wounded. Sudian can take care of sweeping.” He glanced at Nightfall to indicate that, although he had spoken casually, he meant the words as a direct order. Leaving his squire to tend to the glass, Edward hefted Kelryn, laying her gently on the bed. "Where does it hurt?"

Kelryn gathered the fabric of her dress to reveal her right thigh. The sight of the silk sliding along the fair skin gave Edward a pleasure that instantly channeled to guilt. He felt immoral enjoying the beauty of one in pain, especially when that injury came about because of an attack by his enemy. Soon, the dress lifted enough to reveal a blood-smeared, jagged gash in Kelryn’s flesh, surely caused by the destruction of the decanter by magic. Edward used a handkerchief to clean and tend the wound.

Nightfall busied himself sweeping up every crumb and flake, pausing only to retrieve his thrown dagger.

"I guess I won’t be dancing for a bit." Kelryn mused as Edward worked. "Did you know that man?"

"I’m afraid I did," Edward replied honestly as he probed the injury for remaining pieces of glass. He did not miss his squire’s sudden, warning glance. As promised, he would not reveal Nightfall’s natal talent. "You’re right about him being a sorcerer, and he wants to kill us for some reason. I’m sorry I got you involved."

"I’m involved?" All of Kelryn’s rabid terror returned in an instant. She curled into herself, eyes suddenly moist again.

Edward blamed his ministrations for her discomfort and suffered as much for inflicting it. “I’m afraid we can’t chance that you are." He met Kelryn’s hazel eyes, deep and dark in the half-light. "I want you to stay with us. We can protect you until we’ve got him safely in the hands of guardsmen."

Kelryn glanced at Nightfall, and a strange expression crossed her features briefly. She caught Edward’s hand, eyes skittish as a cornered deer’s. "I’d like that very much."

Though her grip felt cold and clammy with sweat, Prince Edward enjoyed the contact.

That night, Prince Edward arranged for them to sleep in shifts, but Nightfall did not bother to awaken the prince when his had ended. He could not sleep. In fact, the restlessness grew into an endless, driving need he could not identify to satisfy. He felt possessed by a thousand contrasting desires. Unidentifiable things in his core goaded him to slaughter Kelryn while the prince slept; others nearly as strong directed him to curl against her for comfort and warmth. Another part of him wanted to surrender to it all, to kill or abandon woman and prince and allow the oath-bond to have him. The same survival instinct that had kept him alive this long kicked in to fight the latter, but the others swirled through his mind in a dizzying chant. His mind told him to follow the course of necessity and patience, to work through the oath-bond and wait for the opportunity to serve his hatred without compromising Alyndar’s prince. Yet, Nightfall’s heart supported the opposite choice, the same that, as a child, had driven him to butcher the man who had killed his mother. The image of Kelryn blood-covered and screaming would not leave his thoughts, and the demon-force told him to dominate and torture, to let the death she deserved become the ultimate mercy.

Nightfall recoiled from his thoughts, finding them as ugly as those that had made him despise Kelryn in the first place. Dyfrin had taught him to control that villainous rage that went beyond justice. "Kill enemies when you have to," the Keevainian had once said. "But do so with calm dispatch. Uncontrolled violence is doomed to failure, in its consequences as well as its actions. Emotion is the enemy of rationality and logic. When it becomes strong enough to guide your conduct, your life is no longer your own."

Edward slept soundly through Nightfall’s considerations. Kelryn, however, grew fretful as night slipped toward its darkest hours. She rolled and whimpered in her sleep, apparently pursued by nightmares as disquieting as Nightfall’s thoughts. Occasionally, she cried out, wordless noises of fear that miraculously did not awaken Prince Edward. Distracted by her movement and vocalizations, Nightfall felt drowned beneath a sea of conflicting emotions; and the path of control and personal right seemed blurry as a distant mountain peak in fog. He had no idea what course of action would serve him best, and that loss of direction whipped him nearly to panic. He found himself contemplating how his actions would affect others as well, and the foreignness of this consideration only added to the turmoil.

At length, Kelryn’s thrashing ceased. She cringed into a corner, like an infant in a womb; and her strangled sobs became comprehensible words. "No, no, no. No. Sorcerer. Blood. Pain." Her fists tightened, fingers blanching; and her tone changed from fearful to desperately angry. The intensity of emotion made him certain she was reliving trauma, not just dreaming. "He’s a vicious murderer. Kill him. Kill him. Oh, just kill him." She flopped to her other side, entreaties lapsing into silence.

Nightfall’s heart quickened, all concentration driven from him. He could only guess at the reference and meaning, could only surmise that she wrestled with a past reality that filled her head when sleep emptied it of the mundane. His own name fit perfectly into the scene. He could imagine her battling scruples, first denying the sorcerer his identity from conscience, then recalling that the man she protected was an assassin who deserved to die. He wondered at what price she had finally sold him.

That concept reawakened the uncertainties that had, so far, kept sleep at bay. One thing seemed certain. He needed to sort through the boil of idea and emotion assaulting him without Kelryn’s internal strife to disturb him. He needed to be alone.

Pulling a cloak over his sleeping gown, Nightfall slipped across the room and out the inn room door. He had no specific idea where to go, though he maintained enough presence of mind to realize it could not be far. He suspected Ritworth would need time to ponder his failure as well as the gash Nightfall’s dagger had torn through his side and hip as he sailed through the window. Still, Nightfall would remain within watching distance of all entrances to the inn or Edward’s room.

Nightfall padded down the empty corridor and the exit stairs. Many things about the previous night seemed as maddeningly illogical as his thoughts, and he tried to draw it all into one coherent explanation. Kelryn had honestly seemed happily surprised to see and recognize him, yet he had once believed in her love for him also. She could fool him as no one else had managed. He would have to draw his conclusions based on other things than the woman’s reactions. Her sleep-talk, at least, seemed more revealing.

Nightfall pushed open the outer door. The late spring air, filled with the scents of flowers and new greenery, helped to clear his head. As the fog lifted, his senses became more attuned and he recognized the soft patter of irregular, trailing footsteps. He slunk into the shadows.

Shortly, the door edged open. Apparently awakened by her own night-demons, Kelryn peered through, eyes scanning the stretches of pasture, trees, and roads between surrounding buildings. Nightfall waited only until she limped outside and closed the door quietly behind her. Then he seized one of her forearms, wrenching it against the small of her back, and wrapped his arm around her throat. He pressed a dagger to her cheek. "Don’t make a sound."

Kelryn choked off a scream with the help of pressure from Nightfall’s arm.

"Haven’t you done me enough harm? What more do you want from me?” he demanded.

Given their current position, the question seemed absurd. Kelryn rolled her gaze to Nightfall. “Marak, please. The last thing I would do is harm you. I love you."

Unconsciously, Nightfall tightened his grip. Red rage washed his vision, and he waited for it to pass.

Kelryn gasped. “You’re hurting me."

"Consider it payback.” Despite his words, Nightfall loosened his grip slightly as the world came back into focus. "In the morning, you’re going to tell Edward you appreciate his protection, but you’d rather stay with relatives. Then you leave and call off your sorcerer."

Kelryn cringed at the words. "My sorcerer?" The incredulity in her tone seemed impossible to feign. "My sorcerer? You can’t possibly believe I would choose the company of vicious killers."

The words sounded ludicrous from one who had once had a serious relationship with the primary criminal of the continent. "You chose my company."

Kelryn defended. "Before I knew who you were, I fell in love with you. Love defies logic. Besides, you never killed the innocent or killed without conscience the way sorcerers do. You liked to believe you were the demon everyone called you, but you never were. You never could be. That’s how I knew you wouldn’t carry through on your threat to butcher me."

Kelryn’s assertion enraged Nightfall, placing in question even the persona he believed to be his own. The demon seed. The godless murderer. He had little choice but to prove her wrong. To do otherwise would deny his very existence. Nightfall jerked Kelryn’s arm, spinning her to the ground. He crouched over her, one knee planted against her chest and the dagger hovering at her windpipe. "I have no mercy for traitors. Don’t mention love again. You betrayed me. You sold me to a sorcerer for what? Gold? Power? A trinket?" Nightfall’s own words gave him pause. Wars of conscience did not end cheaply, and surely trapping the most hunted and hated criminal on the continent should have bought her something more than another dancing job and a dingy room in a Noshtillian hall. Nothing in her quarters had suggested a hidden fortune. Yet, it would not be the first time Nightfall had met a person whose wealth had come too easily, who had spent every copper within months.

"What?" Kelryn stiffened beneath him, favoring her injured leg. "Marak, listen to me. I know how it looks-"

Nightfall increased his weight so the pressure on her chest cut off her protestations. "Nothing more. I’m not going to listen to any more of your lies. If you won’t tell Edward you’re leaving, I’ll just kill you and tell him you slipped away in the night."

Kelryn gasped for breath, squirming to free her lungs from his weight.

Nightfall dropped his mass back to normal, still feeling torn by the maelstrom of emotions and possible tactics. He could no longer suppress the reality he had tried so hard to deny when circumstances had finally brought him face to face again with Kelryn. Through all the hardships, the promise of revenge had propelled him long after other reasons for struggle had failed. It had proven stronger even than the fiery instinct for survival that had kept him alive on the streets. Yet, when his chance had finally come, he had frozen like a child caught stealing his first copper. It seemed as if Dyfrin’s teachings had chosen that moment to come together at once, fully coherent from the surface to the core of their morality. As much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he could not have killed Kelryn at that time. Nor, he doubted, could he do so now. The thing that had paralyzed him in her quarters was love. The hatred for her had grown and flourished, yet the love he now despised as much would not leave him.

Kelryn inhaled and exhaled several times before speaking. She kept her eyes fixed on his, measuring the effect of each word. "I would rather die by your hand than a sorcerer’s. I once saw a sorcerer at work. For all the rumors about you and despite your threats, I don’t think you could inflict worse."

The recollection of Ritworth’s magical torture remained powerful enough to send a shudder through Nightfall. She had a point he could not deny. Though legend stated otherwise, he had kept his few killings, whether planned or in sudden self-defense, as quick and painless as possible. Still, it was not his way to reveal weakness either. "Don’t dare me to hurt you. You won’t like what you get." In spite of his words, he made no move toward violence.

Kelryn did not flinch, her gaze remaining rock steady. "Do what you feel you must. I’ve always been direct with you, and I won’t stop now. The truth: I’m scared to death of that sorcerer. I was ready to fight at Ned’s side until I figured out what Ritworth was, then I froze like a helpless child. I can’t face him alone. I am going to accept Ned’s hospitality and guardianship. I swear to you, to the holy Father, to anything or deity you choose that I mean him and you no harm."

Nightfall pursed his lips, trapped, uncertain of his next course of action. The oath-bond began a mild buzz that steadily grew. Feeling certain of Edward’s current security, Nightfall tried to analyze the reasons for the magic’s awakening. The problem, he believed, came of his vow to follow Edward’s word only except where it conflicted with his safety. Clearly, Edward wanted Kelryn present, and Nightfall no longer felt certain she posed a danger, at least not to the prince.

Kelryn raised her brows, still sprawled on the ground. "Would you like that explanation now?" Though she offered, she seemed reluctant to give it, as if it might prove nearly as ugly as the truth Nightfall believed he already knew.

“No.” All of Nightfall’s resentment returned instantly. Torn in a thousand different directions, he did not want more to consider now. Kelryn had betrayed him. There could be no other answer. She had had months to concoct a story, enough time to make it believable. He would not give her the tools to destroy him again; the love that unmanned him might also force him to believe. And that would give her the opportunity to betray him again. He had suffered that agony once and never more, "I’ll wait till you’re ready, then." Kelryn fidgeted, still seeking a comfortable position pinned beneath knee and dagger. Though she did not speak the words, her inflection implied: I’ll wait until we’re both ready.

Grudgingly, Nightfall backed away, freeing Kelryn. "These are the ground rules. First, you don’t hurt Edward, talk, or direct him into any action that might make him harm himself, or allow or arrange for others to do so. Second, you do not address me unless absolutely necessary." He paused, trying to anticipate loopholes and other possible needs. "Third, keep your damn clothes on.”’

Kelryn sat up carefully, rubbing at her neck. "I agree to all terms, so long as you allow me to change and bathe, at least in private. May the Father suffocate me in the deepest part of his underworld should I do anything against those rules."

Nightfall did not wait for Kelryn to finish but slipped quietly into the night. At first, he just wanted to escape, to let the summer breezes clear his mind of a tangled lump of idea he had no patience to sort. A thought managed to trickle forward from the back of his mind, a memory of his discussion with Finndmer the Fence. He had already written off the money he had spent for swampland. As Nightfall, he could not have tolerated the deception, but Sudian had no reputation to protect. Petty vengeance had to give way before greater and more pressing needs. He had learned much from his discussion in the woodsman’s cottage, including that a man could become landed through marriage. Buying property had failed, and this new consideration moved in to take its place. Two of his five months had already passed, leaving him no closer to fulfilling the oath-bond than at the day of its casting.

Nightfall recalled a night when the wind howled, flinging hail hard enough to sting welts across exposed flesh. He had huddled amid stored hay in a farmer’s loft, the warmth of animal presences rescuing him from a storm that had taken less experienced children and beggars permanently from the streets. He ate well, having stolen his meal from one of the many feasts in honor of the firstborn child of the aging baron of Schiz. He remembered contemplating the irony beneath the sounds of hail hammering the roof and the soft conversations of other homeless who chose the barn as their refuge. He did not seek their company. Had those below discovered him, they would have attempted to take his food and found him far more competent at defending it than his age implied. The rich celebrated the birth of a child by gorging on and wasting food while the poor desperately hunted for scraps to sustain one more.

Nightfall knew that serving Edward’s best interests meant more than just clinging to the prince’s side. He had an obligation to get the prince landed, and that would require more time gleaning information. He did not wholly trust Kelryn, but his emotions and the oath-bond goaded him to believe her three promises at least. It seemed unlikely that Ritworth would attack again so soon, wounded and fatigued from his ordeal. So far, Nightfall’s attempts to ply his usual sources of information had resulted in disaster: suspicion, deceit, and even outright violence. He could no longer count on the underground to supply him, but the knowledge he considered now did not require shady sources. Anyone with idle time to gossip might know what age the baron’s daughter had attained and whether she had already pledged herself to marriage. Nightfall’s memory suggested she and Edward would come close enough in years to raise no questions with their union, and he believed an event as huge as the wedding of a baron’s daughter would have reached his attention. Now, all he needed to do was discover the details and start the process.

If only I could arrange for him to see her naked. Nightfall smiled at the thought, recalling Edward’s overreaction to Kelryn in her undergarments. He headed for the nearest bar.

Prince Edward, Nightfall, and Kelryn rode quietly from Noshtillan the following morning. It seemed best to foil Ritworth as much as possible by moving as often as they could. So, Edward purchased a third horse, a handsome black. Its carriage and glossy coat suited the prince, and Nightfall approved of its color and training. Kelryn rode the chestnut; the paucity of supplies obviated the need for a pack horse. They strapped gear behind each saddle, and the spade rode atop the prince’s personals.

As they journeyed along the earthen roadway between Noshtillan and her sister cities, Nightfall left Kelryn and Edward to their happy chatter. To his relief, they talked about the prince’s ideals rather than about himself or his past, a topic he hoped they had exhausted. When Edward’s ramblings glided into their usual impossible idealism, Kelryn gently bumped the conversation back to reality. Nightfall appreciated her efforts grudgingly, wishing he had her knack for diverting discussion without appearing to contradict or question.

Fatigue enclosed Nightfall’s thoughts like a fog, making new ideas nearly impossible. Instead, he ran through the information he had obtained the previous night. Duchess-heir Willafrida had turned twenty that past winter, still without a husband. The reasons given for her lack of a spouse had been manyfold, and Nightfall had not yet quite decided which to believe. Several men stated that her common looks and plump, small-breasted figure had sent highborn men searching elsewhere. Others, like Nightfall, believed those who shopped for appearances shallow enough to court her for money alone. Most of these blamed her vanity or a personality that seemed to border on silly, the behavior that served some beautiful women well, those who relied on their looks and never bothered with social graces. One of the serving maids insisted that the duchess-heir’s father had become so protective of his only daughter that he screened potential suitors to a ridiculous extreme.

Questioning had also brought forth details about a handful of suitors, the most promising a wealthy goldsmith called Hoson. Depending on whom he chose to believe, the couple had sustained an off and on relationship for two years, they were madly in love, or they had been spotted together periodically. In all cases, however, his name came up before that of any other potential future baron.

They continued toward Schiz amid a light drizzle, the clop of hooves a soothing, steady beat beneath Kelryn’s and Edward’s conversation. Until he visited the bar in Noshtillan, Nightfall had forgotten how quickly rumors spread in the south. Already, several people had recognized him as the squire of the prince attacked by a sorcerer. He had had to suffer through a dozen folk remedies for thwarting magic, many of which were the same as those he had heard homewomen used to protect their families from the demon, Nightfall. Yet one significant possibility had come even from that distraction. A travel-stained warrior alone in the corner of the bar had mentioned a friend who lived in Schiz. Called Brandon Magebane, the Schizian had proclaimed a personal crusade against users of magic and their murders. Apparently, he had a natal talent he did not bother to hide, one that allowed him to disenchant spells and, on rare occasions, to place this same power into objects for others to use. According to the traveler, the Magebane would spend a year or two concentrating his ability into stones or coins, enough to give his companions each a few defenses. Then, they would actively hunt a sorcerer.

That conversation preoccupied Nightfall as they headed toward the country of Schiz. Brandon’s Noshtillian friend had just returned from such a venture, this one unsuccessful. It meant the Magebane’s companions had used their special stones. From experience, Nightfall knew that natal talents used on oneself cost little in time or effort, just a moment of thought. Apparently, however, those who could direct their abilities against others or into items required more elaborate procedures, limited by fatigue. It might take two months or longer for Brandon to construct another of his disenchanting items, but the man Nightfall met in Noshtillan believed his partner might still have one or two stones left over from the previous pursuit. He had suggested Nightfall might purchase those remaining to help protect his master.

At the time and now, Nightfall’s thoughts sprang off in a different direction. If he could attain one of those precious, perfect stones, he could use it to free himself from the oath-bond. He smiled, the expression seeming unnatural through all the pain, physical and emotional, he had suffered or inflicted in the last few days. Free, he could start his life over, unburdened by the responsibility of guarding and directing an idealist in a venal world who flaunted money in front of thieves and begged the company of traitors Free, he could leave Sudian and the enemy sorcerer behind, as dead as his many personae. Free, he could become someone else again. Who, he did not know nor what trade he would take. He felt certain only that he had no wish to return to what he had once been.

This consideration followed him through the day of travel that brought them to the duke’s city of Schiz. Narrow streets glazed with evening gray forced Nightfall to ride behind his master and their companion, and the horse traffic drove pedestrians to the storefronts. Nightfall chose the cheaper of Schiz’ two inns for its proximity to the goldsmith’s shop, though his reasons seemed unclear even to himself. Once free, he no longer needed to work at landing Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, and the information gleaned to accomplish that mission no longer mattered. Once again, he would completely rewrite his obligations and loyalties, this time in any manner he chose. First, he believed, he would locate Dyfrin and repay a long overdue debt of gratitude to the only person in his life who had helped him for no other reason than kindness and no thought of reward.

The He-Ain’t-Here Tavern was a red stone building near the western edge of town with a paddock for guest horses in lieu of a stable and a handful of rooms for rent. Nightfall knew every detail of its interior. As the merchant, Balshaz, he had found need to travel to Schiz only infrequently and had stayed in the more upper class inn farther south. As polio-stricken Frihiat, a Schizian odd-jobber, he had routinely spent his coppers in the tavern, buying drinks for friends when he found steady employment. Well-liked for his story-telling ability, he could usually drink even when his own purse emptied to lint.

Nightfall stripped the tack, placing it carefully into the nearby hut with its rings and wooden stands for this purpose. He over-tipped the servant on duty, as usual, hoping for a competent cleaning of their gear as well as the youngster’s goodwill. Money came easily to an able thief, and Dyfrin had taught him to share his riches, at least, very well. Risking his life in the name of trust or kindness seemed another thing altogether. Every man and woman had a price. If he could meet it with money, he saw no need to bother with anything else.

Nightfall loosed the three horses into the paddock. They entered cautiously, whuffling the scent of strangers sharing their pasture. The bay set straight to grazing, and its calm soon spread to the chestnut. The black horse ate also. Still adjusting to its own companions, the black trumpeted a warning. The other five animals in the corral bolted, circling the fences in a wild run that Prince Edward’s horses joined.

Nightfall watched the casual but powerful pump of leg muscles as the horses charged playfully around the paddock before settling into a herd. He yawned. The sleepless turmoil of the previous night exhausted him, and it made more sense for him to speak with the Magebane early, before Kelryn or Edward missed him. With the common room at its busiest, Ritworth would not dare to attack. So far, he had only come for them when he believed them alone, trapped or weaponless. By heading out alone in the dusk, Nightfall placed his own person at far more risk than the prince.

The oath-bond remained quiet, apparently satisfied with the assessment. Nightfall trotted through familiar streets, unused to watching the scenery pass so quickly. Frihiat’s affected limp had slowed his pace to a restful coast that forced him to notice minutiae. Though in the guise of Frihiat less often than many of his other aliases, he had learned the streets and byways of Schiz so much better. Within a few turns, he came to the cottage the traveler had named as belonging to the Magebane.

Nightfall studied it for clues to the man who dwelt within. It looked exactly like so many other wood and thatch cottages, except for the delicate brown stain he had used to protect, seal, and beautify the construction. A chaotic jumble of flowers sprouted from beds on either side of the doorway, and straight rows of vegetation filled the rectangular area between his home and the one behind it. Nightfall surmised that, when it came to important matters, he would find Brandon Magebane as competent as his food garden, as frenetic as his flowers when it came to play.

Nightfall approached the door with more trepidation than he expected. His soul rode on the Magebane’s talent, but only in a positive sense. If he got the trinket, he gained everything. If he did not, then nothing changed. He paused before the door in thought, trying to decide his course of action should he succeed in breaking free of Gilleran’s binding. He wanted to run, free as a horse unlocked from too long a stay in a dark, dusty stable. But his conscience would not let him. Much as he hated the concept, he could no longer escape the realization that his tie to Edward had grown beyond the limits of the sorcerer’s magic. He would not remain a servant, but he would see Edward landed, if possible, or safely home. He would do it, not out of obligation, but from friendship.

The concept pleased and puzzled Nightfall at once. To fetter himself with allegiances seemed as dangerous and nonsensical as tying himself to a post and waiting for Ritworth to claim him. Yet he finally understood Dyfrin’s explanation for assisting a desperate, demon-child named Sudian: "When you willingly choose another’s troubles as your own, you stop surviving and start living."

The door swung open, though Nightfall had not yet knocked. A man in his mid-twenties stood in the doorway. Muddy curls perched atop a head that seemed too large for his shoulders, and blue-gray eyes studied Nightfall over a crooked nose and thick lips. "Are you sunning yourself, like a turtle, on my porch? Or did you come for a reason?" Despite the words, his tone emerged friendly. In the grayness of evening, the joke fell flat.

Nightfall lowered and raised his head respectfully. "Are you Brandon Magebane?"

"I am." The stranger continued to focus on Nightfall’s every movement, perhaps watching for him to cast some type of magic. Although sorcerers could not afford to trust one another to band against him, a single one could come in secret to try to catch him alone and unprepared for a fight.

"My name is Sudian, squire of younger Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar." Nightfall imitated a shy page, forced to recite a full title despite being apprehensive in the presence of a superior. He believed this act would work better than any attempt to cow the Magebane with privileges and vanity. Any man who voluntarily riled sorcerers would not intimidate easily. "I’m sorry to bother you, sir, I was sent by a friend of yours in Noshtillan. Tall, quiet, middle-aged fellow with a scar." He drew a line from the corner of his right eye to his chin to indicate the positioning of the injury.

"That would be Gatiwan." Brandon stepped back to give Nightfall room to enter. "Come in. Come in, please.”

Nightfall obeyed hesitantly, still keeping with his act. He found himself in a sitting room lined with shelves that held sundry knickknacks from all corners of the world. In contrast, the stools and crates that served as furniture seemed drab.

“Sit." Brandon waved broadly to indicate Nightfall’s choice of location.

Nightfall chose a threadbare stool nearest the door, and Brandon sat on a cushioned crate.

"Now, why did Gatiwan send you?"

"Well, my master and I have gotten attacked by a sorcerer. Twice now. Gatiwan said you might have something that could help us win the battle."

Brandon laughed. "Gatiwan, dear Gatiwan. As usual, generous to a fault when it comes to my property." Though he named it a failing, he smiled to show he found it endearing rather than insulting. “He told you about the magic-breaking stones, I presume?"

Nightfall nodded. "He said you might have a few left."

"I have one," Brandon admitted. Throughout it all, his eyes never left Nightfall, though whether as habitual protection against those who might wish him dead or from suspicion, Nightfall could not guess. Brandon’s tone had suggested a condition, so Nightfall remained silent, waiting for the Magebane to continue. If he needed to gather three hundred silver again, he would find a way, even if it meant stealing it back from Finndmer.

That thought set the oath-bond to a dull ache that he suppressed with the promise he would find a less Nightfall-like solution.

“Tell me what you need it for. Give me a reason to let you have it."

Nightfall considered the motivation behind the request. Under usual circumstances, Brandon collected the stones until he had enough for him and friends to challenge and, hopefully, destroy a sorcerer. Gatiwan had indicated that it took months for the creation of a stone. Therefore, it made sense for Brandon to hesitate to surrender a single one. Nightfall guessed the Magebane would respond better to cause than helplessness. "Well, we’ve fought Ritworth twice, and both times we came close to winning." He amended. "Actually, we’re alive. So I guess we did win in that sense. But he’s got this spell that kills instantly. I think if we could neutralize that, even once, we might manage to kill him."

Brandon’s brows rose, and he seemed pleased by the answer. "How could I deny a stone that might bring double good: slaughter a sorcerer and save a prince?" His eyebrows returned to their normal contour, then beetled lower. "How confident do you feel about handling this Ritworth? Might it not prove better to wait a year and let me and the Magekillers handle him?"

Nightfall shook his head vigorously, seeing his last chance at freedom slipping away. "We’ve injured him twice, and he’s hurt us. I believe it’s an equal match. One small, unexpected object could make all the difference. I don’t think we can hold out for a year." In three months, I’ll become a tiny, suffering piece of another sorcerer, if this one doesn’t catch me first.

Brandon frowned, the expression making his lips seem huge. He tapped a finger against their puffiness. "Very well, Sudian. Here." He pulled what appeared to be a common street stone from his pocket and offered it to Nightfall. "When you need it, squeeze it. It’ll glow red. Concentrate on the source of the magic. When the stone turns blue, it’s working. Once finished, it goes back to gray. It works only one time."

“Thank you." Nightfall took the stone but kept it in his hand. “Now what do I owe you?"

Brandon rose, dismissing the question with a wave. "It costs me nothing but a delay in my next hunt." Again he scanned Nightfall’s reaction, apparently trying to elicit guilt should the squire take the stone without feeling reasonably certain it would give him the edge he needed.

To his surprise, Nightfall did know a mild stab of remorse. He had spoken only truth, yet he had deceived since he had no plans to use the item directly against Ritworth. Still, he had not lied completely. Once free of the terms of the oath-bond, many more means of fighting or running from the Iceman would become open to him, so it would give him the edge he needed. He only hoped it would prove enough. As free as the Iceman had been with the ice spell, Nightfall suspected it was a recent addition in small danger of becoming lost to a weakening soul-bond, at least in the near future. He put the stone in his pocket and rose. "Thank you," he repeated. "Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you in exchange?"

"Nothing is necessary.” Brandon headed for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. "Someday, Sudian, when your problem’s handled, you’ll come on a hunt with us?”

"Of course," Nightfall promised without an iota of sincerity. If I ever go completely insane. He stepped out into the night amid the mingled perfume of the flowers, and Brandon Magebane closed the door behind him.

The urge to use the gem immediately seized Nightfall, but he had learned much patience researching situations, targets, and victims. To invoke the stored talent this near its creator would risk the Magebane’s wrath. Instead, he made no gesture toward the stone at all, just headed down the road back in the direction he had come. Many thoughts swirled through his mind, goading him to question situations that would have seemed obvious in the past. A year ago, he would have taken Brandon’s stone and laughed at the Magebane’s foolishness at not demanding payment. Or, perhaps, he would have considered all possible secondary reasons for Brandon to have refused money, from the conviction that he had placed Nightfall in his debt to the possibility the stone had other purposes than that stated.

Now, Nightfall felt the obligation he would once have glibly discarded. He had always appreciated the fear, suspicion, and danger that forced sorcerers to remain loners and not communicate with one another. He also understood the need for most of those cursed with a natal talent to remain equally isolated; the fewer who knew about their ability, the less likely a sorcerer would discover it. Yet, if he used the example of the Healer in Delfor, not all chose the same strategy as himself. Brandon Magebane had a point Nightfall could not help but consider. Why shouldn’t the gifted band together against sorcerers? Considered in that context, it made perfect sense. The natally talented gained no advantage from harming one another, as sorcerers did, so they could work in teams without challenge. By pooling resources, abilities, and knowledge, they might drive away or destroy enough sorcerers to make life safe for them again. Nightfall had a natal talent. He gained more peace every time Brandon’s Magekillers hunted. Perhaps, someday, he would pay back that favor.

Unconsciously, Nightfall kneaded the stone through the fabric of his tunic. Nothing could compare with the freedom it would buy him, a life to start over without ties or bonds to fools; and, more importantly, without a wizard controlling his soul. Yet the responsibilities would not wholly disappear. Nightfall had thought long and hard about his relationship with Edward, had already promised himself he would either see the landing through or escort him safely home. He had not dragged the gentle, young innocent to the far side of the continent to abandon him to every schemer who saw silver in theft, scam, or kidnapping. Whatever the boy’s father had forced Nightfall to do by magic did not reflect on Edward. The prince deserved to see the godly side, not the demon side, of a squire he had treated well. And Nightfall found satisfaction in the consternation it would cost King Rikard and Gilleran to receive back the idealist unharmed with no way to catch or follow the master criminal they had once held prisoner. Let them sweat in their beds every night wondering when the knife will come.

Nightfall slipped from the main pathway into a short, black alleyway between a house marked as the tailor’s and another that bore no distinguishing features. It seemed strange to moralize, especially over a spoiled prince and a situation that had started as a torture. Yet when acting as other than Nightfall, he had considered the right path on a daily basis. Those nights he handled the evil needs and desires of his demon side left him free to become more prudent at other times and in other guise.

Nightfall pressed his back against the tailor’s home, concentrating on the area around him, though the Magebane’s gift and the reprieve it promised struggled to usurp all other thought. His ears and eyes told him that no one had come close enough to intrude on his moment. He was alone. Pulling the stone from his pocket, he clasped it tightly into his palm. It felt warm, though whether from some inherent magic or from absorbing the heat of his grasp, he could not guess. A red glow leeched through the cracks between his fingers, and Nightfall knew a tingle of joy. Apparently, Brandon Magebane was not a hoax or a crazy but all that he claimed. As instructed, Nightfall concentrated on the oath-bond.

Sudden pain exploded through Nightfall, and he lost all control of his limbs. He collapsed, doubling over, trying to escape agony that came wholly from within. He clung to his last abstraction, the oath-bond, little caring whether the anguish came from the stone or from the death throes of the magic. He would not lose the focus of the Magebane’s gift. Nightfall managed to heave to his hands and knees, realizing as he did that the pain was fading. Now, he could separate the faint tremor of Brandon’s talent from the too familiar prickle of the oath-bond. The latter had caused the pain and also chosen to quiet again. Apparently, it had risen against the threat and conquered. From all he had heard, the stone should have worked immediately, yet the oath-bond remained.

Nightfall froze, failure a shock and a terror at once. He kept calm, working through the problem logically, surmising several possible explanations. He hoped the oath-bond had gone, its buzz his imagination or an aftereffect that might gradually disappear. He tested it cautiously, picturing himself never returning to Prince Edward. He felt no reprisal. Excitement built; it seemed he truly had become free. That realization caused him to consider the prospect of abandoning Edward more seriously. The moment he did, the oath-bond leapt to life, spearing a warning through his chest that drove him to miss a breath. The stone’s power had misfired, though whether from technicality or weakness, Nightfall did not know.

Nightfall rose, assessing the situation. In the tavern in Noshtillan, the man Brandon had called Gatiwan had assured Nightfall that he had never seen the Magebane’s talent or his stones fail. Every time a sorcerer threw a spell, either Brandon or one of his followers with an empowered stone negated it. It now occurred to Nightfall that those who chose to hunt with Brandon probably had talents of their own they kept well-hidden. Who would have more cause to hate sorcerers than the natally gifted? With their powers curtailed and against several others with abilities, a weak sorcerer or one without a fast means of escape would fare poorly.

Having played both sides of many situations, Nightfall felt no pity for the sorcerers. Forever, they had preyed on the innocent, catching the talented as infants or children when possible, when they were an easy fight and less likely to understand the danger of displaying such abilities. Brandon and his people killed, but sorcerers tortured and enslaved. Those who lived by murder usually accepted that violence would end their existences as well. He had expected nothing different for himself, only wondered which way and which time the guard forces and bands of citizens would take him.

Nightfall considered the cause of the stone’s failure. He sifted the three plausible possibilities from an endless procession of unlikely ones. Either Brandon had lied, Nightfall had invoked the item incorrectly, or the oath-bond had proven stronger than the stone could handle. The first and last he could do nothing about, so he considered the second in more detail. The glow suggested he had, at least, begun the maneuver in the proper manner. Brandon had told him to concentrate on the source of the magic and Nightfall had taken that to mean the oath-bond itself, although the Magebane and his hunters, according to Gatiwan, directed their power at the sorcerer hurling the spell.

Again, Nightfall pressed his back to the wall, this time crouching so a fall would not prove as painful. His senses still indicated he was alone. Once more, he clutched the stone in his palm so tightly its roughness gouged his flesh. Red light bled through the lines where his fingers met. Nightfall directed his focus to Gilleran, recalling the sorcerer at the time he cast the spell, in vivid detail. The oath-bond remained at a level just above baseline, nagging that Nightfall was leaving Edward alone too long, no longer seeing his attempt to break it as a threat. Its quiescence seemed to mock Nightfall, to insinuate that his puny efforts at escape no longer bothered it. The red glow still bathed his fingers, without even a tinge of the blue Brandon claimed would indicate the stone was functioning.

Nightfall closed his eyes, concentrating on Gilleran until his fingers ached from being clenched too long. The stone remained red, dulling as his grip loosened. The oath-bond still throbbed a steady chorus, taunting with its vibrancy; and frustration lanced to sudden rage. Nightfall slammed the stone back into his pocket, seized by an urge to pound the wall until it crumbled or his fist became mangled and bloodied. He did not translate the image into action, forcing contentment with the thought alone. He guessed the agony he had suffered came from the oath-bond striking back when it feared he might escape it. Once it realized Brandon’s magic could not dispel it, it had settled back, uncaring. Apparently, Brandon had given him a faulty stone or else his ability only worked against magic in the casting. Perhaps, once set, the spell would no longer yield to the Magebane’s talent.

Nightfall headed back toward the main road, feeling all the more trapped for his failure. He channeled the need to violently dispel his rage into determination. That lesson of Dyfrin’s he had learned well: to wait out storms of emotion and act only with deliberate thought. Though he had heard of others who worked their scams or murders best in a wild fog of rage or a drug-induced frenzy, he considered them fools. He had done nothing blinded or driven by emotion, whether love or anger, that he did not regret. That was why he would not listen to Kelryn’s explanation, not until he felt certain he could hear without love lulling him into believing the absurd or lies goading him to slaughter.

Once on the cobbled pathway, Nightfall took only a raw steps toward the inn before turning aside in the direction of the duke’s citadel. Now, the need to land Prince Edward became even more the obsession. One way or another, he would thwart the oath-bond and extract payment from Chancellor Gilleran, even if it meant joining and guiding the Magekillers for the expedition. King Rikard’s fate would depend on his motivations for binding son and killer together.

These thoughts brought the oath-bond to a screeching crescendo that ached through Nightfall, claiming much of his rage. Harming Alyndar’s officials went against the tenets of the oath-bond every bit as strongly as leading the prince into danger. He had vowed he would cause no harm nor allow harm to come to any noble, servant, or guardian of the kingdom, especially the king, his chancellor and his sons; and the oath-bond would undoubtedly see to it he kept that promise as fully as those that bound him to Edward.

Nightfall turned his mind back to his landing strategy, and the oath-bond’s reminder slackened to normal. He paused to surreptitiously pluck a shartha flower from a cottage bed, then strode directly for the citadel. Once there, he kept to puddled areas of grayness, flitting from one to the next until he stood beneath that which he knew from years in Schiz to be Willafrida’s window. In the quiet darkness, he prepared to scale the wall, first appeasing the oath-bond with the understanding that he would not steal, kill, spy, or perform any other action it might consider too much the persona he had promised to abandon. The flower had closed for the night, but wisps of tubular petals showed through the sides, promising a fat, purple bloom come morning. The stem held the deep green hue of health.

Nightfall placed the stem in his mouth, careful not to bite down. He knew little about decorative plants, having sown only edible crops in his guise as Telwinar the farmer. However, his dealings with poisons and time on the streets eating whatever might lessen the rumbling hollow of his gut had taught him that those plants or insects that looked most beautiful protected themselves from predators with toxins. From experience, he knew shartha contained a mild poison that caused intestinal discomfort and vomiting.

Catching handholds and dropping his weight, Nightfall shimmied up the stone building. Colorful, silk curtains rippled in the balmy breezes, the shutters open to admit the warmth and no glass blocking his entrance. He assessed the room in a glance. Intricately carved furniture filled most of it, in matching patterns that depicted a long string of horses on every leg and ledge. The bedposts held wooden horse heads as knobs, and the canopy was a tapestry that depicted a girl in a dress composed of endless fabric sitting in a patch of blue wild flowers. Beneath it, a young woman in a sleeping gown fluffed the pillows and stepped daintily between the sheets. Straw-colored hair poked from beneath a frilly cap, and the lantern light displayed green-gray eyes and a flat, upturned nose. She sported a rich woman’s plump curves, overbalanced at the hips so that her buttocks seemed disproportionately wide. Though far from homely, her facial features held little attraction for Nightfall. He waited until she extinguished the lantern and snuggled beneath the covers.

Confident of his discretion, Nightfall did not wait for Willafrida to fall asleep before slipping into the room and placing the flower on the night table. Once finished, he crept back out the window, clambered swiftly to the ground, and headed back to the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern. As he walked, Nightfall considered excuses for his tardiness. Although he had spent less than an hour with Brandon Magebane, and the detour by the citadel had only cost him a few extra moments, he had obviously spent more time away from Edward than simply stripping tack and releasing horses into a pasture should take. He had settled on a story about having gotten stuck discussing steeds with a noble gentleman when he arrived at the thatch, stone, and mortar building. Its crookedly lettered sign bore a random shape that made it seem likely to have been a scrap from a larger project. Nightfall guessed Edward would understand and respect his decision to let a highborn talk, no matter how lengthy or dull the discourse.

Nightfall opened the door, amid a turbulent shrill of hinges that made him wince. Apparently, however, the patrons had become so accustomed to the noise that most did not even bother to turn. Inside, open windows on either side of the building admitted a cross draft that brought the smell of damp and greenery to a room that otherwise reeked of stale beer and sweat. The perfume of freshly cooked vegetables and lamb became nearly lost beneath those stronger odors, but Nightfall’s hunger dredged the food scents from the others. All of the tables were occupied, many surrounded by half a dozen chairs or more. Kelryn and Edward sat with their backs to the entrance, apparently oblivious to his arrival. Nightfall did not miss the arm the prince chose to rest not-quite-casually across the back of Kelryn’s chair. He felt a stab of jealously, discarded it, and immediately suffered a second warning pain, this from the oath-bond. As long as he considered Kelryn a threat, it would do so also. Four strangers, all men, sat at the table with them, probably begging news of Alyndar and their travels.

Nightfall approached, taking a position between Edward and the closest Schizian, a man he now recognized as a local stone hauler. He knew the other three as well, two builders and the cooper. All were harmless, though none could keep a secret from one end of a room to the other which explained their attraction to travelers with news, especially one dressed as richly as Prince Edward. "Master, I’m sorry it took me so long."

Prince Edward looked at his squire, smiling a warm greeting and demanding no explanation. Apparently, he had enjoyed himself enough not to notice the time. "Ah, Sudian. We saved you some food." He shoved over a platter with shredded lamb, tubers, and peas that had, apparently, served as a common plate.

"Thank you, Master." Nightfall searched for and found an unoccupied chair, using the hunt as an excuse to examine the tavern’s patrons. Most were Schizian commoners familiar to Nightfall by face if not by name. Others appeared to have come from Meclar or Noshtillan, either to gather news or because they preferred their drinks in a different location now and again. Aside from Edward and Kelryn, only one man seemed not to fit. He wore a well-scrubbed leather jerkin and a tailored cloak of fine linen. A servant tended his needs, dressed in white with a red stallion embroidered on the front of his tabard. Nightfall did not recognize the standard. He scooted his chair to the table with enough noise to interrupt the talk, then seized on the ensuing silence. "Who’s the highborn with the horse symbol?" The stone hauler did not bother to turn to look. "That’s Datlinst, a knight’s middle son. He’s been courting the duke’s daughter, Willafrida; but he’ll be moving on to the Tylantian joust soon like the others, I’d warrant."

Nightfall ate, looking down at his plate to keep from revealing an expression until he decided on the proper one. He had now heard of the competition for the second time, and Edward still had not mentioned it. Surely, if a knight’s middle son had received an invitation, Alyndar’s younger prince had not been excluded. Thinking back, Nightfall recalled several instances earlier in their travels when they had met warriors headed in various directions for special weapons training or for competitive preparation.

The stone hauler continued talking, a favorite pastime. "Now that Hoson and the others have gone, I think Datlinst thinks he has a better chance. But he can’t stay much longer. The competition’s in just two weeks, and it’s a good week’s journey to Tylantis. As it is, he probably won’t find no place to settle there. Surely, all the inns are long full.

Nightfall considered carefully. With most of the suitors gone, it opened the way for him to work his plans as well; but he needed to know why Edward had no interest in a contest that could get him landed. If he could find the reason, counter it, and talk Edward into entering, he would need to cheat the prince to a win. That seemed difficult, yet no more so than creating love between strangers. For now, he left both options open. He would attempt to bring prince and duchess-heir together swiftly. As the week neared an end, he would assess how that strategy seemed to be working and make a decision. Meanwhile, he would need to uncover the reasons for Edward’s apathy.

One of the builders asked the obvious question. "You’re headed for the contest, I presume, noble sir?"

"Me?" Prince Edward seemed surprised by the question. "No.”

The Schizians exchanged confounded looks, but they did not press. Nightfall appreciated that they left the probing to him.