The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 16

A wizard hoped to slay the beast.

He conjured up a poisoned feast.

The demon fed him to the crows Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.

– "The Legend of Nightfall"

Nursery rhyme, alternative verse

Moonlight bathed the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern to a red glaze in darkness, and horses stomped and snorted in the paddock. Pressed against the pasture fence, Nightfall watched patrons come and go, identifying them in the open doorway by torchlight from the common room. Prince Edward crouched beside his squire, his huge figure, light-colored silks, and golden hair too obvious a target to Nightfall’s trained eye. Given his way, Nightfall would have had them ride as swiftly as possible to the joust. Abandoning Kelryn would have seemed a blessing, but he had yet to think of an argument that could bypass the prince’s current obsession and convince him to leave her behind. Until he did, he would not mention the possibility as it would only cast suspicion on his motives once an appropriate reason occurred to him.

Silently, Nightfall cursed Edward’s persistence and the situation into which it trapped him. Logic told him allowing Edward into the tavern would prove too dangerous, and the rising tingle of the oath-bond confirmed his doubts. It made more sense for Nightfall to enter the tavern alone to collect their gear and a woman he would rather desert; yet caution would not allow him to leave the prince in an alley, alone and hunted, either. Snagged into a stalemate, Nightfall also realized the dangerous significance of time. The longer they tarried, the more likely Varsah’s men would recapture them.

Becoming impatient, Edward pressed forward. “She’s inside, Sudian. Let’s go."

Needing to delay, Nightfall blocked Edward with an outstretched arm. "Wait, Master." He took advantage of the sight of three men entering the tavern together. "Look there." He pointed to the strangers.

Edward glanced in the indicated direction, unimpressed. "What, Sudian?"

"Guards, Master. Probably hunting for us."

Edward shook his head, dismissing the possibility. "They’re not guards. No mail and no uniforms."

Nightfall kept his arm in place, blocking Edward’s path. "That’s a trick, Master. I’m certain. I saw most of the duke’s men. Those are guards.”

Prince Edward stepped back into place, giving his squire the benefit of the doubt. "Off duty?"

"Possible," Nightfall admitted. “But just as dangerous."

Edward returned his attention to the door, though the men had already entered. "Why do you think guards would be going there now?"

Nightfall kept his gaze on the tavern door. "Good place to hunt for us, don’t you think?"

Edward shrugged. "Not necessarily."

"And to get information of any type."

Edward stiffened visibly. "Do you think Kelryn’s in trouble?"

Nightfall pretended to consider, knowing immediately that he could only answer in the negative. "Master, they don’t know she’s with us. Even if someone tells them, she has nothing to do with your visit to Willafrida. They have no reason to hurt her." Nightfall seized the opportunity. "If we go to her now, Master, we may get her in trouble. If she doesn’t know what happened or where we’ve gone, there’s no excuse for Varsah to bother with her at all."

Edward opened his mouth to protest, but no words emerged. He must have seen some common sense to Nightfall’s explanation, yet it did not sit well with his honor and need. "She’s still in danger from the sorcerer. We can’t just leave her."

"Of course not, Master." Nightfall answered the second concern first. "We’ll come back for her. We can even send word from the joust. Money, too, if you think it necessary. After Varsah has given up on Kelryn having any information about us." He addressed Edward’s other point. "And the Iceman doesn’t want her. He’s after me."

Edward dropped to his haunches, obviously still uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Kelryn. He crouched in a thoughtful hush for several moments. Then, obviously having made a decision, he pulled a stylus and a curl of parchment from his pocket. He started scribbling.

Glancing about to ascertain that no one was nearby, Nightfall sat beside the prince. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Making a note." Edward continued writing. “We can sneak it to Kelryn somehow. At least then she knows we didn’t strand her, and she can catch up to us later."

Nightfall liked the idea of a note, though he would have it say something quite different. "Master, one problem."

“‘Hmmm?” Edward continued writing.

"Kelryn can’t read."

Edward’s stylus stopped moving. He looked up. "She can’t?"

"No, Master.” Nightfall simply told the truth.

Shocked, Edward asked the obvious, though foolish, question. "Why not?"

"Most commoners can’t, Master."

"Oh." This was apparently not a matter he had considered before.

"If she takes it to just anyone to read for her…” Nightfall trailed off, the complications of such a thing obvious.

Edward looked stricken.

Nightfall presented his plan then, certain Edward would be receptive to many ideas he would not have considered moments earlier. "Kelryn and I had a picture language." Again, he spoke honestly. They had invented ways to communicate with drawings or gestures. "I could write the note, and we could pay someone to deliver it to her. If anyone else looked at it, they couldn’t read it."

Prince Edward handed over stylus and parchment eagerly.

Nightfall broke off the part Edward had scrawled. It made little sense for him to use code if the note also contained written details.

"Tell her we had to leave in a hurry and we tried to get her, but we couldn’t." The prince dictated excitedly. "Tell her we’re coming back for her. Oh, tell her where we’re going so she can follow us. And sign it from me." He pointed at the parchment. "With love.”

Nightfall met Edward’s gaze directly, brows raised. Times like this reminded him his master was still an adolescent.

Edward controlled his childish exuberance, his voice returning to its usual commanding timbre. "Did you get all that, Sudian?"

"Yes, Master, I heard it all." Nightfall ignored the prince’s guidance, writing precisely what he pleased. He returned the stylus to Edward. "Now, I need to find a messenger." The obvious choice came to him at once. He glanced toward the tack house. "The stable boy should do. He could get our packs, too, without suspicion, I’ll be right back."

Prince Edward craned to see the writing over Nightfall’s shoulder. He frowned at the two illustratives. "That says everything?”

"Not everything, Master," Nightfall admitted. "I can’t write as much in code as free hand, but this has all the important points she needs to know." Like that we don’t want her around us any longer.

“I’ll come with you." Edward rose.

"It would be unwise, Master." Nightfall gestured the prince back down. "The guards will be watching for the two of us together. They won’t notice me so much if I’m alone."

Edward nodded, though obviously not wholly comfortable with the situation. "Sudian, be careful."

The warning seemed ludicrous; it was far more likely they would spot Edward. "I will." Nightfall slithered into the shadows. The oath-bond quivered awake, intensifying the farther he went from the concealed prince. Nightfall ignored it. He would not go far nor remain away long. Within a few paces, he came upon the tack house and pressed his back against it. He glanced toward their hiding place near the paddock. His trained eyes carved Edward’s outline from the surrounding darkness with an ease that discomforted him. He would have to work fast.

Nightfall remained in place, studying the area in the moonlight briefly. Seeing no suspicious figures or movement, he opened the tack house door. First, he hauled down the gear for their horses, leaving it outside for later collection. Then, he approached the stable boy sleeping on piled straw in the corner. The youngster lay on his side, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, his breathing deep and slow.

Nightfall placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and shook gently. Drowsy, brown eyes flickered open, and the stable boy sat. Pieces of straw clung to his brown hair. He studied Nightfall for several moments. Obviously recognizing him and recalling the generous tip on their arrival, he smiled and leapt to attention. "What can I do for you, sir? Should I get your horses ready?"

"No. Thank you. We can handle that." Nightfall offered a silver.

The stable boy rose quickly, gaze locked on the coin.

"I’d like you to go to the men’s inn room, get my master’s pack and mine, and quietly pass them through the window." Nightfall described their gear.

The stable boy nodded. Though it must have seemed an odd request, he did not question it.

"Then, I want you to find a woman named Kelryn. She might he in the women’s overnight room." Nightfall pressed the silver into the boy’s hand. "She’s in her early twenties. Has hair as short as mine, and it’s white like an old person’s."

The stable boy stared at the payment. "Is she the one I saw with you earlier today?"

"Yes. Good. Give her this message. Just hand it over, and don’t tell her anything. Then meet us by the packs. No matter what Kelryn actually says, tell my master that she claimed she’d wait here till we return.”

"All right.” He placed the silver into his pocket.

"I’ll give you another if you do that all correctly and quickly.”

The stable boy grinned.

Nightfall did not bother to swear the boy to silence. So long as Nightfall mentioned nothing about their destination, the boy could say whatever he liked to protect his own innocence, even the truth. There was nothing inherently illegal about assisting patrons, especially a foreign prince; and the boy would have had no way to know he helped fugitives.

The stable boy trotted off to play his role, and Nightfall gathered the horses’ gear.

As night deepened, the crowd in the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern thickened, then waned to the small group of patrons who had paid for lodgings. Kelryn sat at a table by the unlit fireplace, alone, becoming more alarmed the longer the absence of Prince Edward and Nightfall stretched. She knew she could no longer assume they had just stepped out and would soon return. Something had happened to them, though whether a voluntary escape from her or trouble she had little information to surmise. She knew only that, earlier in the evening, one of the Mitanoan travelers claimed to have overheard them talking about joining the Tylantian contests. She doubted Edward would leave her without explanation, but Nightfall would do everything in his power to strand her and talk the prince into doing the same. She knew no one better at manufacturing emergencies.

Tears welled in Kelryn’s eyes, smearing the color to a pasty green-brown. Love ached within her, a burden she felt certain she could never shed. Though understandable, Nightfall’s hatred cut like shards of the broken swan, and she felt as if her heart had shattered with it. Truth, if he would listen, would have to win him back; but even that did not seem the answer. Although it would exonerate her, the explanation might hurt him more than just letting him believe she had betrayed him.

Memory assailed her brutally then, as it did whenever she allowed her thoughts to stray to the ugliness she could never forget: the man on the floor twisting his body to escape the agony the sorcerer gleefully inflicted. The screams that cut straight to the heart and seemed to turn her insides into liquid. The driving need to do something, anything, to stop the cruelty, and the fear that had paralyzed her into a shocked and helpless silence. The knowledge that any action on her part would only have meant death for them both did not assuage the guilt she lived with every day.

Kelryn gritted her teeth, forcing the image away before it solidified. From experience, she knew that, if the details became clear in her mind, the picture would haunt her through the remainder of the day and nightmares would terrorize her sleep.

“‘Excuse me, ma’am."

Glad for the interruption, Kelryn glanced to her right. A boy dressed in the same gray linens as the serving maids stood at her elbow.

Kelryn tried to keep her voice steady. "What can I do for you?"

"Here." The boy tossed a scrap of parchment to the table. Without further explanation, he turned and headed toward the outer door.

"Wait," Kelryn said, many questions coming to her at once. She could never recall a messenger not waiting long enough for a tip, at least.

But the boy ignored the call, scurrying outside before Kelryn could shout for him again. She let him go, more interested in the parchment. Although illiterate, she knew a few words, mostly ones Nightfall had taught her; and the two had developed a sparse language of hand signs and pictograms during their courtship. She unfolded the parchment. Nightfall had used the picture code, his handwriting bold and crisp. He had drawn only two symbols. The first, a gently waving series of lines, meant love. He had penned it neatly, then slashed over it with dark, brazen lines to indicate an error. The only other marking took the shape of a guiding arrow.

Kelryn crumpled the parchment in her hands, driven to tears by the implication. She knew he intended to tell her that the feelings he had once held for her had been a mistake; and the arrow pointed for her to go away. She folded her arms on the table, buried her face between them, and let the tears fall where they would. She found herself pinned in place, hopeless beyond moving but not beyond suffering. The love symbol and its covering lines seemed like a branded impression against her eyes, a picture that would never fade. It’s over. Kelryn tried to let go of all the promises and hopes for the future, but they clung, a fiery agony that made the tears come faster.

Why do I care? Kelryn had asked herself the question too many times to need an answer now. He’s a thief and a killer: Yet Dyfrin’s words returned to haunt her: "I think what he struggles with most is that deep inside he’s a good man, fighting to become the demon his mother and the populace named him. If he committed half the crimes ascribed to him, he’d have to be quintuplets; and I know it’s closer to a tenth of the burglaries and a hundredth of the murders. And every one, no matter how necessary or deserving haunts the conscience he doesn’t even believe he has. Why do you think he plays so many people? With each one, he tries to escape the very thing he believes he has to be. He has no realization of how much time he spends in other guises compensating and consoling the families of those he robbed or killed. But I know."

Kelryn had listened raptly with a skepticism deeper than she would have believed anyone could allay. But Dyfrin had done so, countering every question and quelling every doubt. That he knew Nightfall as well or better than Nightfall knew himself swiftly became obvious. More eerie, he seemed to understand her to the core as well. Only later she discovered the explanation, knowledge that had cost her the man she loved, a fear that would not leave her, and evil dreams that lasted long into the day. So innocent. So simple. And yet nothing had held such a price. If Nightfall would only let her tell him, he would understand.

The burden Dyfrin had placed on Kelryn would not allow her to surrender. "Someone has to break the cycle, Kelryn; and that someone is you. I admit, I worried that you would hurt him and drive him deeper into the abyss he doesn’t realize how much he wishes to escape. But now I know you truly love him. You can help him. He needs you."

Kelryn remembered how those words had made her feel at a time when she still grappled with the realization that the man she had fallen in love with was the world’s most notorious and vicious rogue. All she had ever wanted was a normal life, never to change the world or any person in it besides herself. Yet Dyfrin convinced her. Nightfall was not the wanton killer the citizens believed him; and, unlike the conscienceless mercenaries who could only be controlled or executed, Nightfall rehabilitated could become a boon to the very continent that had so long cowered to hear his name. "Why me?" she remembered asking, the burden too much for one common dancer to carry.

"He loves you."

Kelryn had thrown the answer back at Dyfrin. "He loves you, too. And for much longer."

Dyfrin had worn a pained expression that showed he understood, but the matter had too much significance to allow for doubts. "I’ve done what I could. I showed him the other side of life and relationships at a time when he needed it. I demonstrated that love and pain don’t have to go together, that loyalty does not always lead to betrayal, and gave him as much self-worth as an impoverished street orphan could have. Without those things, he would have been lost, every bit the night-stalking demon so many believe him to be. I’ve done all I can. Now, he has to know that I’m not unique in the world, that others can be trusted. And he needs to learn it from a woman."

Utter panic had suffused Kelryn then, the need to run from a responsibility she had no competence to handle. She still lived amid the wreckage of her own less than adequate home circumstances. To help her family eat, she had lied about her age and started dancing at twelve. By thirteen, she had needed to sell her body as well. No matter the notoriety of the source, Nightfall’s gentleness had made her feel special, and his obvious love for her had turned sex from a chore and duty into the beautiful and joyous thing she had always heard it should be. She owed him, wanted to do what she could for him, and Dyfrin understood that as he did everything else about her.

Kelryn’s crying slackened to a trickle as gentler scenes from the past paraded through her mind, but realization of the tragedy that had followed their conversation jarred her back to the present. She would not abandon Nightfall until she forced him to listen and he understood what had really happened. He could believe her or not. He could react in any fashion that suited him. He could still choose to leave her, and she would handle that as it came. But she would not let him do so without first hearing the truth. Without the facts, he could only assume, and he could do little else but believe she had betrayed him. Yet, though she had considered it a thousand times, she still could not discard the realization that the truth might hurt him more.

Kelryn regathered her composure. She raised her head, studying the tavern through tear-glazed vision. No patrons remained. The serving girls wiped and rearranged the tables. The bartender restored bottles, bowls, and mugs. She rose, stretched, and headed through the door to the rooms beyond. Gathering her supplies, she went back into the common room and slipped out into the night. Any direction seemed as good as another when she had no way to know for certain where Edward and Nightfall had gone, so she followed her only lead.

The road to the eastern cities did not take Kelryn far before exhaustion overrode her. Determination had driven her until that moment; but, as the sun rose higher in the sky, the decision to chase randomly after a stranger and a man who hated and mistrusted her seemed foolish. In the cities, she was protected. Here, she felt vulnerable and alone, prey for woodland creatures as well as the bandits or rapists who menaced those who dared to travel without armed guards. And, though it made little sense for one without a natal talent to fear them, she worried about sorcerers most of all. She had seen the pain they could inflict, and the memory obsessed her.

As if to personify Kelryn’s fears, a man stepped casually from the brush. He wore unwrinkled linens, finely tailored. Light brown curls fell rakishly across his forehead, and his dark eyes examined her like prey. He held Ka doll in his hand, apparently fashioned from the same grayish mud as the pathway. She recognized him at once as the sorcerer who had ambushed Edward in her room, the one the prince had called the Iceman.

Kelryn gasped, taking an involuntary backward step. Her heart rate trebled in an instant, and images of blood and death scored her vision until the man in front of her seemed to disappear. Terror froze her in place. She prayed for someone to come, anyone who might frighten the sorcerer away; but she stood alone on the broad stretch of road. She glanced about wildly, desperate for escape though her limbs would not obey her.

The wizard smiled. "If you’re looking for a place to run, don’t bother." He held the mud doll in one hand and seized its foot in the other. Suddenly, he twisted.

Agony shot through Kelryn’s leg, and she collapsed to the ground as much from startlement as pain. "Stop," she sobbed. "Please stop." Ghosts plagued her, a body striped with wounds. Splashes of blood on wall and ceiling.

Ritworth released the foot. By all natural law, the mud should have crumbled in his fingers; but the figure returned to its created shape, strangely pliable in his grip. He continued to study Kelryn calmly, the smile etched in place, as if he found as much pleasure in control as in the pain he inflicted on her. "Don’t try to escape. Answer my questions honestly, and there’ll be no more pain."

Kelryn remained in position on the road as the pain receded, her eyes still aching from the crying jag the previous night. She drew all her courage together, forcing away the images and managing whispered speech. "What do you want from me?"

”Information."

"I don’t know anything.”

"Let me ask the questions first." Ritworth came closer, standing directly over her, his face cruel and his eyes reflecting a happy madness. “Where are the prince and his squire?"

Kelryn whimpered, despising her weakness. "I don’t know."

Ritworth buried a fingernail in the gut of his figure. Pain doubled Kelryn over, and she snaked into a knot to escape it, without success. She screamed.

Still composed, Ritworth removed his finger, and the anguish settled to a dull throb. "I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and ask the question again. Now, where are the prince and his squire?"

Pain and fear drove tears to Kelryn’s eyes. When she swiveled her head to display her integrity, she saw him through a blur of moisture. "Please. They left without me. I don’t know where-" This time, the agony speared through her back, and she felt as if she would snap in two. She screamed repeatedly, welcoming the hovering promise of unconsciousness.

Apparently realizing he would lose his information source to oblivion, Ritworth restored the shape of the mud doll. "Damn it, woman. I’ll find a pain that makes you talk if I have to inflict it by my own hand!"

Kelryn sobbed, curling into a helpless ball that only seemed to further enrage the Iceman.

“Talk, damn you. Talk."

"I-" Kelryn managed, obligated to say something. "l-just-"

Another man spoke from the brush, his voice ominously familiar. "She doesn’t know, Ahshir Lamskat’s son. Or should I call you Ritworth, too?"

The Iceman stiffened and spun to face this new threat. "Who are you?"

Kelryn’s fuzzy thoughts would not let the identity of the second man come into focus. Though she believed herself rescued, something about the voice shot shivers of dread through her. She loosened her muscles cautiously, moving slowly as much from fear of retribution as from discomfort. The pain seemed to disappear as swiftly as the magic inflicting it, but one glimpse of the newcomer’s middle-aged face with its neutral brown hair and ghost-pale eyes brought a crampy ache that had nothing to do with sorcery. She vomited, sick from terror and pain. Two sorcerers stood before her now, and she could not handle even one. She slumped to the ground.

“Does my name matter?" the more recent arrival said.

"I could make one up as easily as you did."

Ritworth’s response was a sudden harsh word accompanied by a gesture Kelryn remembered well. She cringed as he flung his ice spell at the other sorcerer.

As quickly, the newcomer pointed at a site directly in front of himself, mumbling. Where he indicated, the air seemed to shimmer like heat haze over dark earth. Ritworth’s magic entered the area and slowed to a crawl, its intention visible as icicles and crystals stretching toward its target. The blue-eyed sorcerer stepped aside as the spell crept toward him. Once through the band, the magic apparently returned to its normal speed; because, an instant later, a patch of ice slopped onto the road.

Frost dusted the more recent arrival’s brown bangs. "Nice," he admitted, unruffled.

Ritworth’s face puckered and reddened. He threw down the mud doll, slamming the breath from Kelryn’s lungs and sending bruises aching through her limbs, pelvis, and rib cage. She struggled for air as the wizards exchanged spells that came to her only as slashes of light and pin-point sparks across her vision. When she finally managed to breathe, they stood where they had, glaring at one another, as if daring the other to attack first again.

The newcomer broke the silence. "Ahshir, I didn’t come to hurt you. I have a proposition.”

The Iceman’s eyes narrowed. "A sorcerer make a deal with another? You mistake me for a fool."

"Listen to what I have to say first. Then you decide."

Kelryn remained in place, throbbing in every part as if she, not the doll, had gotten hurled to the packed roadway. She wanted to block out the sounds and scenes around her, to silently creep from the road and become lost in the forest. But pain held her immobile, and something about the blue-eyed sorcerer’s voice soothed and drew her to trust him. If not for the memory of him towering over another, inflicting torture that sent his victim writhing and seizing in a frenzied, panicked desperation to escape, she might have given her loyalty without understanding why. Horror and hatred overcame the gentle magic he used to help persuade, at least for her.

Ritworth, however, had no previous experience with the newcomer to prejudice him. He remained coiled and watchful, but he did listen. "Speak your piece, then."

"My name is Gilleran, and I’m the chancellor of the kingdom of Alyndar." The blue-eyed one kept his gaze locked on the Iceman.

Kelryn tensed, preparing to fast-crawl away. The movement roused pain; and she squirmed, driving her focus to his words to avoid the pain but pretending deafness. She wriggled toward the mud creation, certain only that she wanted it out of other hands than her own. Any further movement would require motivation she did not have. The constant ache sapped her of drive, and vivid memories of the agony this sorcerer could inflict all but paralyzed her.

Gilleran continued. "Both princes are headed toward their destiny: death in tourney. The king is getting older, and l stand next in line for the throne."

Terror ground through Kelryn, lost in the wild maelstrom of fear already assaulting her. Bad enough she would surely die for no more reason than befriending victims of treason. She would never get the chance to warn the innocent prince and the loyal squire she loved.

Ritworth’s lips pursed. "A convenient arrangement for you," he conceded. "But how does this concern me?"

"A kingdom of souls. A quarter of the continent at my mercy." Gilleran’s tone created a grander picture than his words. "An endless pool from which to replenish my power as captured souls get used to decay. More spells than I could ever use myself. Some perhaps would prove more to your liking? A fair split would make us both the most powerful men in the world. Our talents and our armies could conquer any who dared stand before us. Ultimate power and every talent-soul our property. What more could any man want?"

Ritworth glanced at Kelryn just as she scooped up the mud doll. If Gilleran spoke the truth about Edward heading toward the contests, Ritworth no longer needed whatever information Kelryn could give him. "Keep that, if you wish," he told her. "Its power is spent. Try to run, though, and you’re dead."

Kelryn clutched the figure possessively. Though tight, her grip caused her no consequences, suggesting either that Ritworth had spoken honestly or only things he did to it could harm her. Better to chance killing myself than die in the agony he could inflict. Kelryn gradually winched her hand closed. The doll crumbled to dust, and no pain accompanied the breakage.

Ritworth addressed Gilleran next. "It sounds like the perfect arrangement. Why would you want to share?"

Gilleran shrugged. "There’s more here than I can handle by myself. It’s lonely having everything. Who better to split the riches with than someone who understands the hunger? Who better than someone with enough power to help defend it all?"

Ritworth frowned in consideration, his interest obvious even to Kelryn, though she could not tell whether it stemmed from avarice or some mundane or magical ability of Gilleran to sway. She shivered, no longer pained, held in place only by Ritworth’s warning and her own incapacitating fear. She had always considered herself tougher than most, yet the images of sorcerous slaying hammered at her courage until it became lost beneath the terror.

"Will you join me, Ahshir?" Gilleran pressed Ritworth for an answer. "Or do we battle now to the death? Your choice."

Ritworth sighed, obviously torn. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Gilleran smiled. "Watch." He walked to Kelryn. Once there, he addressed her. "Kelryn, pretty girl. We meet again." He held out a hand to assist her to stand.

Kelryn shied away, all her desperate fear returning. “Get away from me, you murderer."

Gilleran flashed a grin at Ritworth. "We’re old friends.” He turned back to Kelryn. "I can kill you as easily on the ground. In fact, more so. If you cooperate, I won’t harm you."

He used a sincere tone that Kelryn had difficulty doubting. Then her mind filled with images of magical slashes that splattered blood and Gilleran’s laughter as he butchered the screaming man pinned beneath him. Tears blurred her vision. Avoiding his hand, she obediently stood. She could escape more easily on her feet.

“This is how I bind my oaths." Gilleran made a broad, arching cut with his hand. Pausing, he mumbled a few guttural syllables. "Kelryn, this spell will hold us both to any promises we make. Here are the terms this time: If you find Prince Ned, you will tell him his loyal chancellor has handled the Iceman and he has nothing more to fear from sorcerers." He winked at Ritworth, as much, Kelryn suspected, to keep his attention on a potential enemy as to share the details of the spell. "You may say nothing negative about me within earshot of Edward, Leyne, or Rikard Nargol." He added with an evil smile.

"But before you leave, you must kiss me like a lover."

Revulsion restored Kelryn’s will to fight. "Beast! Demon! I’d rather eat feces than look at you."

Gilleran retained his cool demeanor. "No need to flatter, Kelryn. I had already planned to give something in return. My promise to you: this time, at least, I’ll let you go unharmed and alive. And I will do what I can to see my companion does you no damage either."

Ritworth raised his brows at this, obviously displeased.

Gilleran finished, “However, should I meet you later under other circumstances, I retain the right to act as I feel prudent. Do you agree to these terms?"

Kelryn hated every part of her situation, but most of all remaining in the presence of two sorcerers. She did not doubt the efficacy of the spell; she knew too little of magic not to believe the claims of those who practiced it. Gilleran had not made her promise anything malevolent. She could not warn Edward of danger, but she could still tell Nightfall everything and let him handle the prince. This time, she swore, she would compel her lover to listen. If she did not agree to Gilleran’s terms, she harbored no doubt the wizards would kill her in the most vile fashion they could devise. A kiss seemed little enough compared to what Gilleran might force upon her if she refused. "All right," she said carefully. “So long as your promise is included, I agree?

Ritworth interrupted. "Is that wise? Letting her go, I mean. She’s a witness."

"A witness?" Gilleran crinkled his brow. "Witness to what?"

"She knows what we are."

“No matter. She knew before. Sometimes the knowledge of others works to a man’s advantage, even when it doesn’t seem so. Trust me."

“She heard your plan."

"I’ve been with the king nearly two decades. He trusts me. No one would believe the tramp, especially when the story she tells varies in the presence of royalty."

"Still…” Ritworth started.

Gilleran shrugged off the argument. "If she gives me reason, I left us plenty of opportunity to kill her." He grinned at Kelryn with a corpse’s warmth. "I believe she’s a smart girl, aren’t you, Kelryn?"

Kelryn kept her mouth closed. She would make no more promises for the sorcerer to seal with his magic.

Gilleran muttered a few more words, accompanied by some finger movements. "Done," he said at length. He nodded at Kelryn. "You’re free now."

Kelryn did not wait for a second invitation. She launched herself from the path to the woods, taking three running steps before pain slammed her low in the belly and she collapsed to the dirt again. Something sparked and crackled, like a fire inside her, driving her back toward the roadway and the sorcerer waiting there. She whimpered, nearly incapacitated by the pain, rolling to find some position that eased the agony tearing through her. By luck or instinct, she wriggled back the way she had come, and the lessening of the magic’s urging sent her crawling to Gilleran’s feet.

"Forgot something, didn’t you?" Gilleran prodded her with a boot toe. Ritworth watched in silence.

Understanding struck Kelryn then. She could not leave until she had administered the promised kiss. "You bastard," she managed, the oath-bond now only a prickle prodding her to her feet and to fulfill the promise. She stood, torn between need and loathing. She took a step toward him. Leaning over, she granted him a quick peck on the cheek that dulled the buzzing only slightly.

"Ah, well, no wonder you’ve lost your lover if that’s the best you do for him." Gilleran reached for Kelryn.

She cringed away, though it cost her a stab of pain.

"Come now. I know you enjoy our company, but we can’t stand here all day. If the Iceman decided to kill you, I’m not certain I could move fast enough to stop him. I only promised I’d try, remember?"

Kelryn chose the lesser of evils. Determined, she planted her lips on Gilleran’s, hating the perfumed smell of him and despising the taste of his lips. Her tongue touched his, and she gagged as much on the thought as the presence of his saliva. His hands explored her with fierce and shameless boldness, and it sickened her. The kiss lasted until the inner pain disappeared, leaving only the nausea. She pulled away, trying to run. But her empty stomach roiled from the experience, and she heaved dry. Dizzy aftereffects dropped her to her knees.

Gilleran laughed at her discomfort. "Do you see how I bind promises?"

"Yes." Ritworth nodded. "I’m convinced. Now we kill her."

Kelryn stiffened.

"No." Gilleran stepped between Ritworth and Kelryn with a quickness that seemed uncharacteristic. “I’m every bit as tied to my oath as she to hers. Killing her would destroy my soul. And I can’t let you do it either."

Ritworth relaxed, apparently satisfied by the answer to his little test. Although Gilleran’s claim proved nothing, his instantaneous loyalty to his oath, even before the partner he was trying to befriend, was convincing enough; and he had knowledge of the manner and workings of magic. “Very well, then," he said grudgingly, clearly still not comfortable about letting Kelryn go free.

Through all the fright and discomfort, a memory surfaced in Kelryn’s mind, words Nightfall had used the same night he had revealed his foul past: "Accident is never reason enough to kill a man. There are better ways to handle mistakes than murdering innocent spectators." Clearly Gilleran had learned this lesson where Ritworth had not. For that, at least, he seemed the lesser evil. Though no longer the focus of attention, she rose cautiously and edged toward the forest. No one tried to stop her.

"What do I have to do?" Ritworth prepared for the process.

"Come here," Gilleran gestured Ritworth to stand in front of him, beneath an oak edging the roadway.

Ritworth moved to the indicated place. Kelryn slipped into the woods, every instinct goading her to run. But, this time, she managed to keep enough presence of mind to remain hidden in the brush. The words the sorcerers exchanged could become vital to the safety of Edward and Nightfall. She peered between branches in time to see Gilleran make the broad, looping cut he had performed just before beginning the spell he had used to bind her. This time, however, he added a guttural phrase.

Ritworth and Kelryn realized the significance at the same time. The maneuver had nothing to do with the oath-bond, nor had it when he cast the spell on her. Gilleran had set Ritworth up for other magic. Even as understanding dawned, sorcery cleaved a massive limb over Ritworth’s head, and it came crashing down upon him. Ritworth dodged aside, too late. The branch slammed him across the back hard enough to snap vertebrae and pinned him to the ground. Kelryn screamed, the sound lost beneath Ritworth’s louder screech of agony and Gilleran’s laughter.

Now, nothing could keep Kelryn in place. She sprinted without thought or direction, dodging and ducking through trees and brush, ignoring brambles that clung to and tore her clothes and skin. At least four times she slammed into trees, once hard enough to send her sprawling, the wind knocked from her lungs. But every time she staggered onward. The Iceman’s shrill cries of agony prodded her like a burning brand, and her thoughts flashed back to the night in her room: The conversation interrupted by Gilleran’s sudden entrance. The wild charge that had grounded a gentle man who had become a friend in a matter of hours. The short struggle-futile. Gilleran’s magical slashes had carved deep, bleeding swathes as easily as he had cleaved the tree limb over Ritworth. The physical mutilation had seemed endless, the suffering cries spiraling her into a hysteria that would not leave her, night or day. If only she had not frozen. If only she could have saved Dyfrin.

Kelryn ran until the sorcerer’s screams faded into the background swish, rattle, and bird calls of the forest. She charged through the woodlands until time, hunger, and exhaustion lost all meaning. Then, when she could run no more, she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the forest floor and prayed to the holy Father that she would someday find the strength to fight back.

The road and forest became familiar to Nightfall and Prince Edward Nargol as they traveled eastward. After the first few days, they found themselves in the constant company of would-be spectators from every land. Nightfall appreciated the crowds. Their talk told him most of what he needed to know about the layout of the tourney fields, the specifics of the combat, and details about the competitors. Where eavesdropping fell short, he supplemented with innocent questions, usually gaining far more than the information he sought. More than seventy nobles and highborn had received invitations. The true tally, of course, would not come until they arrived. As Edward had proven, an invitation did not necessarily mean the invited one would choose to participate. The elimination setup also meant that Edward would not directly battle most of the others. In fact, simple computation of the chances, without assessing skill, suggested even odds that Edward would be eliminated in his first trial. Nightfall would see to it those numbers changed quickly.

At night, they camped. While Nightfall prepared food and chatted with their many short-term companions, Edward pieced together outfits and horse decorations of rich purple to serve as their crest. He had had little choice when it came to colors; Nightfall’s clothes came only in Alyndarian purple and silver. Without time to create the symbol, they would have to temporize with a solid banner. Once the duchy was won, they could work out the details of a crest. This lapse seemed to worry Edward more than the contests themselves, but Nightfall guessed that had more to do with using it as an excuse to take his mind off the possibility of facing off with his brother. Nightfall found competition between the princes no concern at all. Surely, the officials would make efforts to keep brother from standing against brother; and, with any luck, Prince Leyne Nargol would lose early.

Nightfall and Edward arrived at the walled city of Tylantis in the late morning, though a winding line of people blocked their view even of the ramparts. Mounted guards in Tylantis’ orange and bronze rode through the masses, stopping at intervals to question individuals or escort the highborn, their servants and families, to the head of the line. Within an hour, a stately guardsman in mail on a dappled horse approached Edward. "Good morning, good sir. Might I ask your name?"

Not wishing to spend the remainder of his natural life waiting, Nightfall took his cue. "My master is Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

The sentry seemed pleased by the name, apparently one he had been counseled to seek. Nightfall hoped that came from the competition, not some message sent by Schiz’ duke. He banished the paranoia. It would take time for Duke Varsah to notice them missing and figure out which direction they had taken. He would also need to decide whether or not to risk pitting duchy against kingdom by hunting a prince over an issue of manners.

"Participating or spectating, noble sir?" the guard asked.

"Participating," Edward replied.

"Very good, sir." The guard glanced at the surrounding crowd. "Do you have retainers or family you wish me to attend?"

"Only my squire." Edward indicated Nightfall with a sweep of his chin.

"Come with me." The guard rode off, shoulders back and head raised, obviously preferring the duty of escorting players to herding disgruntled spectators. He led Prince Edward and Nightfall directly to the gates. "Just one moment please, Prince Edward." He dismounted, shouldering through a press of guards at the gateway. True to his word, he returned almost immediately. "Come with me, please." The guards stepped aside to leave a pathway into the city. With their guide at the lead, Edward and Nightfall rode between them.

Though Nightfall once knew the city by heart, it looked nothing like he remembered. Every open area had merged, now covered with the retinues of knights, nobles, and highborn men of every description. Massive horses, groomed to a sheen, grazed while servants and slaves scurried to tend animals and masters. Some of the buildings and dwellings he remembered had disappeared to make room for the competition. In the middle, wooden fences marked off several rings where the combats would take place, each with its own portable wooden jousting wall inside the confines. Merchants thronged the periphery, offering everything from fresh cooked meals to "strength potions" that likely contained nothing more exotic than the local food. Though rare on the green, women abounded among the fringe elements, seeking husbands or quick money for a night of pleasure before the following day’s events.

The guard found a relatively open space amid the jumble of participants. “You’re one of the last to arrive, Prince Edward. I’m sorry about the cramped quarters." Edward cheerily dismissed the need for apology. “I’ll let the officials know you’re here and see if I can find out who you’ll be fighting."

"Thank you," Edward said.

"Why don’t I go with you?" Nightfall added quickly. "I can bring the news back to my master and save you the time and trouble of returning."

Edward nodded his agreement, obviously buying that Nightfall volunteered to assist an overburdened underling. In truth, Nightfall wanted a glimpse of the competitor list as well as some guidance as to how the system worked in order to calculate every opponent Edward might face. The knowledge would make cheating far simpler.

"Thank you,” the guard said, though with far less enthusiasm than an offer to help should have elicited. Obviously, he preferred carrying information to nobles, a far more pleasant aspect of his job than the outside sorting he would have to return to that much sooner. Nevertheless, he accepted Nightfall’s presence without complaint. Together, they rode toward the central rings and a group of highborn elders conferring there.

The guard pulled up before them. "This is the squire of Prince Edward Nargol."

The men nodded, exchanging muttered comments and rummaging through lists. The guard threw Nightfall a good-bye gesture, then wove his way cautiously through the participants and back toward the gates. Nightfall dismounted and approached, unobtrusively reading one of the lists upside down. "Excuse me, sirs. The guard said you could tell me who my master would be fighting.”

A heavyset, grizzled man with a short beard fielded the question. “Certainly. Just a moment." They conferred briefly, giving Nightfall a long look at the list while they used a stylus to cross out and shift names. From their exchange, Nightfall discovered they arranged the participants by anticipated ability then paired them, one from the bottom and one from the top of the list. That meant that the man most likely to win the entire competition fought the weakest opponent, the second fought the next weakest and so on. The strategy had sense to it not obvious on initial inspection. Though the first round of fighting would have little challenge or merit, the least competent fighters would become eliminated in the starting round, and each subsequent match should become more evenly matched and exciting. Once the pattern became established, it only remained to see where they ranked Prince Edward.

Nightfall did not wait long. They sketched in Edward’s name far closer to the bottom than he liked, then counted down from the top. He glanced at the list more obviously, as if for the first time. "About half a hundred participants?” he guessed aloud. He scanned more closely, surprised to find Prince Leyne Nargol of Alyndar at the very top of the list. Obviously, Edward’s awe of the elder prince’s abilities stemmed from more than just brotherly adulation.

"Forty-eight," the gizzled man replied. "You’re the last to arrive. All the other invitees are accounted for one way or another. Prince Edward’s opponent is Sir Takruysse sol-Chiminyo."

The "sol" indicated a bastard son, and the name seemed pure Mitanoan. Nightfall glanced over the camped nobility, selecting one at random from the crowd. "Takruysse? Isn’t he that gentleman there." He pointed. “The one with the green and copper standard?"

"Green and copper?" The grizzled man shook his head without bothering to follow Nightfall’s gesture. "That’s Ivral’s colors. Takruysse uses a background of brown and green swirled together, and his symbol’s a stalking cat. Brawny knight with hair so dark black it’s almost blue."

Nightfall did not recall having heard anything specific about the man on his travels. Likely, Mitanoan nobility would keep slaves, and he might find information or even disloyalty among them. At the worst, having an opponent who ruled in slave country might fire Edward’s spirit. "What kind of fighting will they do?" Nightfall rephrased the question in a form suiting a dutiful squire. "What weapon should l ready for my master?"

“The first round, everyone jousts lance to lance. The winner only has to unhorse his opponent. The loser is eliminated from the contests. The winners get paired, and a flag toss determines who chooses the weapons. The decision is posted tonight, so there’ll be no surprises or unfair advantage tomorrow. By the last match, we should have only the best three fighters remaining.”

Nightfall repeated the math for himself. By tomorrow, the numbers would whittle to twenty-four, then twelve, then six, then three.

"Those three will all face one another, so that each will fight twice." He rattled off the rules next. "All participants should fully armor for their own safety. Deliberate attacks directed against horses will result in disqualification. Standard rules apply for weapons: no sharp edges or tips. Jousting is done from opposite sides of the wall. We don’t want any serious accidents. Each man is responsible for his own equipment and his own horses and slaves or servants. We do have some sparring weapons available, but we don’t guarantee quality."

Nightfall knew Prince Edward had no practice weapons, but he suspected a man who could wield a spade against enemies probably had little prejudice when it came to balance or construction.

The man finished, "Any rule not covered here will be assumed to be as routine for tourney. All disputes about decisions must be brought to the judges immediately after the match. Personal grudges should be handled outside of the city. King Jolund reserves final authority in all decisions of any type." He smiled at Nightfall. "Any questions?”

“Just one." Nightfall smiled back. "When my master wins, who will he fight next?"

The judge allowed for Nightfall’s loyalty. "When your master wins, he’ll compete against the winner of…" He scanned the list quickly for proper pairing. "… this contest." He touched a finger to the names just above Edward’s. "Either Baron-heir Astin of Ivral or Sir Fedrin of Trillium.” He winked. "If judges could place wagers, I’d bet on Astin. Then again, I’d also put my money down on Sir Takruysse. He’s won his share of contests."

Nightfall shrugged, seeing no reason to overplay his loyalty. He glanced at the sheet for a reasonable idea of who might become future competition. Each contest doubled the number of possibilities, but it gave Nightfall some direction for his research. Edward would start with a difficult opponent. With each consecutive win, the competition would get more fierce; and Nightfall hoped his cheating could carry the prince all the way to final victory. Despite his experience with devious underhandedness, he had never gotten involved in the luxury games played by the highborn. Still, he supposed, nobility needed some way to weed out the chaff, and contests of skill seemed better than comparisons of lineage. Edward, Nightfall guessed, was considered Alyndar’s roots and stems. "Thank you." Turning, he headed back into the crowd.

Remounting, Nightfall took the long way back, examining the competition. Squires curried horses, oiled tack, and polished armor. Slaves and servants scurried between masters and the periphery with food, water, and small items for preparation or repair. He found Takruysse toward the center, the cat symbol and swirling colors unmistakable. His slaves had crafted a wooden lean-to in which a proud blood bay charger stood, its demeanor watchful but calm. Clearly, it had weathered many con tests. The jousting saddle perched upon a stout log supported horizontally by poles staked into the ground. Silver reflected highlights that blinded Nightfall, and he shielded his eyes for a closer look at the more functional, weaker parts of the tack. The cinch strap was a braided weave of brown and green sewn onto a gleaming ring, its cleanliness suggesting it was brand new for this contest. A leather tie would draw it into place. The front and back supports, Nightfall guessed, would prove sturdy. The armor lay neatly stacked on a blanket, two collared slaves oiling and buffing, giving full concentration to the task.

Nightfall took the scene in at a glance, without pausing to gawk. He headed back toward Prince Edward, his mind a whirlwind of ideas. Thoughts of tampering with Takruysse’s lance passed quickly. To hollow it would take too much time and risk, and Takruysse would surely notice the abrupt change in weight and balance even before the contest began. Whittling it down would not get past the knight’s inspection. Nightfall cared for horses too much to lame one without consideration of all other options first, and he doubted he could injure Takruysse without taking his own life in his hands. He imagined he could sneak in and kill the knight, but neither his conscience nor the oath-bound promise to leave the persona of Nightfall behind would allow murder without justification. Tampering with the armor seemed possible, but remotely so. Nightfall knew nothing about its parts, construction, and donning. He considered slipping something inside it, such as bees or some kind of grainy powder; but a better plan came to him based on equipment he knew well. The saddle seemed the target; he had sabotaged cinches before. And minor preparation of Prince Edward as well would aid the success of his plan.

Nightfall returned to his master pleased by his own cleverness. Edward had dismounted, though the horse still wore saddle and bridle, the reins looped in the prince’s hand. He talked with another man perched on a heavily-muscled palomino, its coat burnished and its mane cream white, unmarred by even single hairs of darker color. It stood motionless, four feet steadily braced and its ears cocked back and attentive to its rider. Nightfall focused on the stranger, drawn by the majesty of stance and appearance. The close-cropped blond hair made Edward’s longer locks seem unruly though they were well-brushed. The features were familiar, and the shrewd, brown eyes clinched the identity. He looked like an older version of Edward, except for the eyes that could only have come from King Rikard. Only then, Nightfall recognized the purple and silver patterning on the silks of man and horse, the too-familiar colors of Alyndar.

"Master, let me handle the horse." Nightfall reached to take the reins from Edward. He gave each prince a respectful half-bow.

Edward waited until Nightfall had a good hold on the leathers, then released his grip. "Sudian, this is my brother, Crown-prince Leyne."

Nightfall made a gesture of deferential respect with his free hand, allowing the elder prince to speak first.

Leyne obliged, his voice the same booming bass as his father’s. "Ah, yes. This is the fanatically loyal squire they’re still whispering about back in Alyndar." He studied Nightfall with a measuring gaze that seemed more curious and aloof than mistrustful. Nightfall would have bet all the money in his pocket that Leyne knew nothing about Rikard’s and Gilleran’s arrangement. "Four months and not quit yet. That is impressive." He winked at Edward to show he meant no offense.

Edward smiled tolerantly.

Nightfall took an immediate dislike to the crown prince of Alyndar. The things brothers could get away with saying to one another had never ceased to amaze him. Nightfall set to his work without a reply, stripping saddles and bridles from both horses and hobbling them to graze.

Leyne turned his attention back to Edward. "Best of luck, brother. It’s good to finally see you take some interest in competition. No matter how you fare, it’ll be good experience for future tourney.” He spun his horse and waved over one shoulder before heading back into the crowd.

Edward watched after his retreating brother, lips pursed and gaze longing. "I wish I could be more like him."

Cut your brain out. Bloat your self-regard. Nightfall kept the thought to himself. Finished with the horses, he set up camp swiftly. Edward continued to stare after his brother, looking nervously out of place amid the confident band of nobles and their entourages, nearly all of which consisted of more than just a single squire. Once he spread the sleeping blankets, prepared food, and arranged the packs protectively around their camp, Edward finally addressed him.

"How much do you know about armor and jousting weapons or getting horses ready for tourney?"

Nightfall saw no reason to lie. “Nothing, Master."

"Nothing," Edward repeated, clearly disappointed but not surprised. "Well, then, I’ll teach you. Leyne said the first round will be all tilting.”

Nightfall’s brow creased. "Tilting, Master?"

"Lance competitions from horseback.” Edward sighed, apparently realizing Nightfall had not exaggerated when he claimed to know nothing about the sport. "A good choice in some ways; you’ll need to learn everything at once." He considered his own words. “A bad choice for the same reason, I guess, depending on whether you learn better at once or gradually.” He gave Nightfall a questioning glance.

Nightfall shrugged. "Teach me whatever is needed. I’ll learn."

Edward nodded, obviously realizing the answer did not matter, nor would it change anything about the situation. “First, a trip to the weapons stock. The experienced ones will have brought equipment of their own, decorated and balanced to their liking. As late as we came, we’ll have to take whatever’s left of what the competition supplied, if anything. Otherwise, we’ll have to borrow."

Nightfall nodded to indicate he had heard, but he did not concern himself with the problem. Once a weapon met certain specifications, the biases of individual wielders made far less difference than most would think, at least to Nightfall’s mind. He preferred a perfectly balanced and tapered throwing knife, but he could fling a sharpened stick into a bullseye. Skill played a far greater role than tools, and he had watched Edward wield a spade like a sword with too much competence to believe minutiae would destroy his ability or sense of timing. "What about Prince Leyne’s lance? Wouldn’t he lend it to you?"

"He probably would." Though he answered in the affirmative, Edward shook his head. "I wouldn’t ask." Nightfall tendered his question cautiously, a repeat of Edward’s words. "You wouldn’t, Master?"

"It would be impolite. Leyne’s weapons are like his queen will be: long-sought, meticulously chosen, and not to be shared." The prince hesitated, obviously as discomfited by his own choice of words as the thought of borrowing from the brother he emulated. "Did you find out who I’ll fight first?"

"Sir Takruysse sol-Chiminyo." Nightfall gauged Edward’s reaction.

The prince swallowed hard, features paling. He managed a mild smile, with obvious effort. "They must trust me to do well in my first competition to give me an opponent who has placed high in so many."

Nightfall thought it best not to explain the true structure of the Tylantian bouts. It would only wreak further havoc on Edward’s already sagging morale. Instead, he selected words to fire up his master. “I’m not the only one who sees your prowess, Master. And the battle the Father gave you begins as well. Takruysse is from Mitano. And he keeps slaves."

Edward looked away, lost in thought. Only the tensing of his jaw gave away his mood.

"Which comes first, Master, lessons or lance-picking?”

Edward unclenched his teeth to answer. "Weapon first so we can make arrangements for borrowing, if need be, before nightfall."

Nightfall had long ago learned not to respond to the word-play on his name, although this time it seemed eerily appropriate.

Edward added apologetically. "I’m afraid we’ll probably have to practice donning and doffing armor several times tonight."

Nightfall suspected the exercise would prove a chore for both of them, but he did not mind. With knowledge of the proper technique would come an understanding of the competition’s weaknesses. Means to cheat, Nightfall felt certain, would come to him as well. He would only have to find ways to do so that would keep the judges, and Edward, ignorant.

Leyne’s name came up for the first of the five waves of competition and Edward’s for the second, which meant Edward needed to prepare while his brother fought. Word reached them quickly enough, however; and it scarcely seemed worth watching even had circumstances allowed. The crown prince had cleanly unseated his opponent on the first charge with an easy fluency that remained the talk of the spectators even as the second set of competitors paraded toward their assigned rings.

Nightfall had found his loophole in the form of raw-hide bindings that secured Edward’s legs to the saddle and his gauntlet to the pommel. Though not directly mentioned in the rules, Nightfall guessed his trick would prove unlawful and against propriety if anyone discovered it; he would see to it that no one did. He had secreted the straps as only a sneak-thief could and wet them to hardened strands he would need to cut when he unarmored Edward. They would not break. The same, he hoped, would not prove true of Takruysse’s cinch. Under cover of darkness, he had slipped past all of the Mitanoan’s slave sentries to work his trickery on the tack. It had taken finesse to weaken ties without tell-tale fraying and to just the right extent that it would not give while cinching onto the horse, even for a second tightening.

Following the lead of other squires, Nightfall rode at Edward’s right hand as the procession wound, in two lines, toward the roped off arenas. Unlike nearly all of the others, they had no symboled banner to display; only the purple cloth they both wore demonstrated that they belonged together. Yet, even without a standard, Edward looked regal. He, kept his head high, more, Nightfall guessed, from training than temerity; and his blond hair fluttered like gold around his aristocratic brow and cheeks. The blue eyes, though soft, flashed determination, and the armor added size to an already substantial figure.

At a command from a man in Shisen’s colors, apparently a representative of King Jolund, the squires in Nightfall’s line looped behind their masters and took new positions at the left. Missing the cue, Nightfall trailed the others, finding his place just as the two ranks closed together. Now, the nobles rode in pairs, competitors side by side, and the squires sandwiched them. Although the eyes of every participant and servant remained fixed ahead, Nightfall violated the pomp by using the arrangement to study Takruysse. He saw little but the gleaming, towering form the armor lent all of the participants, and the shadows of the helmet revealed only snatches of expression and feature. A single dark curl had escaped the enclosing metal and drifted across his forehead. The man riding at his right hand seemed more frightened than honored. Nightfall hoped Edward read the slave’s discomfort as well. It might goad him.

King Jolund spoke from a dais in the center of the arenas, surrounded by rigidly alert guardsmen. “Shisen gives its thanks to all the many visiting nobles…" The speech rattled on, the king saying very little in as many words as possible. Nightfall paid the king no heed, having overheard it all when the first wave of combatants had held this same position. He would prattle eternally about the seriousness of the competition, the duchy prize at its conclusion, the rules Nightfall had heard from the judges the previous night, and the standard procedures and conduct at competitions that he had already violated.

Some of the horses stood like statues, moving only to swish their tails at an occasional fly. Others pranced in anticipation or impatience. The competitors, including Edward, listened raptly to the king, their expressions as grave as the Father’s most faithful in his temple. It amazed Nightfall how seriously the highborn took their games, placing on them an adherence to honor that transcended life and death. To Nightfall, it only reinforced how removed they had became from the issues of and need for survival. Every year, while the nobles traveled from city to country, deciding which toy lance suited their hands most comfortably, the commoners daily made decisions as to whether to feed the weakest child and pray both might live or the strongest and give that one a fair chance while the other’s cries faded and disappeared. Caught up in the sobriety of the moment, Nightfall could not help but consider Edward as a ruler. Given his morality and Nightfall’s advice, many things would change. Fewer children would grow up beaten by mothers with no other outlet for their frustration.

Applause splattered through the audience, shaking Nightfall free of musings that embarrassed him. I’m thinking like Dyfrin again. He strove for the unfeeling pessimism of the demon, but it remained beyond his reach. It did not fit his current guise. For now, and until Edward won Shisen’s duchy, he was Sudian.

The nobles split to their respective rings, and the audience drew in as close to the roped off areas as they dared. Nightfall rode to the sidelines with Takruysse’s slave, the horses shielding them from the hordes. The two combatants split, riding to opposite sides of the arena. The crowd went silent. The slave tensed and loosened his fists, eyes locked on his master, clearly intent on the outcome.

Nightfall initiated conversation. “Your master must treat you well.”

The slave tore his gaze from the baron’s bastard reluctantly. "Not really." He smiled. "But if he rules a duchy in the east, I’m a free man. There’s no slavery in Tylantis."

Nightfall nodded his understanding, glad Edward could not overhear. Better the prince did not consider the possibility that his losing might grant some slaves freedom, at least not unless consolation became necessary. Before he could reply directly, the slave’s attention snapped back to the contest. The horses charged toward one another on opposite sides of the low, central wall.

Edward held his lance in position securely, his shield raised to take whatever blow Takruysse delivered. He seemed anxious, an unsettling contrast to Takruysse’s staunch resolve. The two raced toward one another. Nightfall stared, not allowing himself the luxury of a blink. He needed to remain alert to anything that the impact might reveal or that the judges or Takruysse might call a foul. His eyes stung by the time lances met shields with a thunderous crash, the weapons tearing a line of sparks along metal shields. The collision proved too much for the damaged cinch. It snapped, dumping saddle and rider over the horse’s rump. Edward rode past, barely budged, cautiously reining his horse.

The slave swore viciously under his breath, and they both rode to meet their masters. Takruysse rose, eyes wide and mouth open, as if he could not fathom how he had wound up in the dirt. The slave assisted his master dutifully. One judge came to Edward’s side and the other spoke to Takruysse. The baron’s bastard shrugged, speaking too low for Nightfall to hear. The judge at his side made a gesture to the other to indicate no challenge. With a nod, the one near Edward spoke. "The winner of round one, Edward Nargol younger prince of Alyndar." Sparse applause and whispers accompanied the pronouncement. Takruysse had gained a following from his appearances in previous games. Edward had only the secret love many hold for any underdog and the steadfast squire who rushed to his side and covertly removed illegal restraints.

First round won. Five to go. Nightfall knew the process would grow harder as the numbers became whittled. His frauds would have to become more subtle as the crowds and judges paid closer attention. As winning lent confidence and the duchy became more than distant dream, losers would become quicker to dispute judgments, right or wrong.

Edward chattered softly at Nightfall as they rode around the finishing competitions in the other arenas. “I can’t believe I actually won. Lance has never been my best weapon…" He broke off as they rounded the last of the rings where a dispute had ensued, drawing the attention of competitors as well as spectators, including Prince Leyne.

The knight who had called the foul explained. "He hit my horse. That’s against the rules."

The not-yet-proclaimed winner pleaded his case. "If it’s deliberate, it’s against the rules. I just swung a bit wide. I grazed it by accident."

The judges nodded, glancing from one to the other and whispering between themselves. A hum stretched through the crowd as each moderated the dispute in his own mind. From what Nightfall could hear, most believed the victor should keep his win. The judges seemed uncertain, deliberating for moments that passed like hours to the competitors. If they upheld the win, the knight of lesser ability would continue in the contests, at least according to the lists. That made the claim of foul hold more weight than if the stakes stood the other way.

Clearly, Prince Leyne did not agree with the masses. He addressed the "winner" directly. "Usually, Darxmin. An accidental strike would not count against an honest man. But that same so-called accident won a match for you in Grifnal last month and in Mezzin last year. The judges should know that also."

Darxmin glared momentarily at Prince Leyne, but he did not deny or defend the charge.

Edward nodded slightly, his expression grave, his eyes round with reverence at his brother’s knowledge and memory. Nightfall watched without obvious expression, wondering what advantage Leyne gained by overturning the victory.

The judges pondered several moments longer. Then, the eldest spoke, “Retire to your corners to prepare. This match will be fought again."

Applause followed the announcement of what seemed a fair compromise, even to Nightfall. It did not impugn either man’s honor and would assure an honest contest. Intentionally or by accident, Darxmin would not hit the other horse again.

Leyne threw his brother a stiff, acknowledging salute, then rode off into the crowd.

Edward and Nightfall continued toward their camp, the prince smiling quietly. "Honest, capable, forthright, and bold. To what more could any noble aspire?"

Uncertain of the question, Nightfall had no response. "Yes, Master," he replied as seemed expected.

"I wish I could be more like my brother."

Not again. "Like Leyne, Master?"

Edward swiveled his head to study his squire. "Well, yes. Who else did you think I was talking about before?"

Nightfall thought it best not to say he had assumed Edward spoke in general terms. “You’re wonderful as you are. Why would you want to change?"

They pulled up at the camp. Nightfall dismounted, removing the bridle so his bay could graze without danger of looping a foot through the reins. Swiftly, he went to Edward’s side to assist his dismount in armor.

"As always, I appreciate your loyalty, Sudian. But how can a man not model himself after one as exemplary as Leyne Nargol?"

Nightfall chose not to answer, instead seeking the real motivations behind Leyne’s action while he meticulously removed the armor as he had been taught only the day before, beginning with the gauntlets so Edward could use his hands. "Does his highness not like Darxmin?"

"They’re friends."

"How about the other knight?"

"Sir Trettram? Leyne knows him, too. They’ve lost contests to one another." Edward assisted Nightfall, painstakingly piling the armor to avoid further scratching or dirtying it.

This news fell outside Nightfall’s experience with human nature. It made more sense for Leyne to side with the man who would prove no match for him later in the contests. He explored other possibilities, trying to force the picture into his view of reality. He worked on the theory that Leyne might side with the man whose style of fighting he knew better. "He’s stood against Trettram more often then, Master?"

"No, actually, Darxmin’s been a part of the competitions longer. He’s just not a particularly good warrior, at least compared to most gentry."

Nightfall let the thoughts settle while he removed the last of Edward’s protections from the padding beneath it. Curiosity goaded him to delve further into Leyne’s motivation, but propriety would not allow it.

Edward extended the conversation to its natural conclusion. "His honor won’t let him tolerate dishonesty, so he speaks out. His interference makes things better. I try to do that, too, but I always wind up in trouble because of it."

The comments brought understanding to Nightfall in two forms. First, he conceded that Leyne might actually have mediated the situation fairly rather than tried to rig it in his favor. Second, he realized just how much Edward Nargol tried to imitate his brother and just how miserably he had failed. The situation intrigued Nightfall. He had never had a sibling. Although he respected Dyfrin more than any person on the continent, it had never occurred to him to mimic his friend’s morality or actions, only to occasionally follow the advice when it suited him. He had to be what his bloodline made him, not a copy of Dyfrin. Yet, Nightfall realized, bloodline had given Edward and Leyne the same potential.

Prince Edward changed into his regular clothes while Nightfall inspected and polished tack and armor. Edward obtained the meal from one of the many vendors, and Nightfall packed away gear to protect it from damage or theft, appreciating the reprieve from cooking. He ate well, reawakening the charade of testing Edward’s portion for poison. With a duchy at stake, Nightfall doubted most of the other participants would prove as truly "noble" as Crown-prince Leyne. In fact, he had not forgotten his own vial of shartha petals tucked away in a pocket. In any but tremendous doses, it would only cause cramps and vomiting; and he had no intention of killing anyone.

After the meal, Edward wandered to the rings to watch the remaining matches, though whether as entertainment, for technique, or to judge the competition, Nightfall did not care. He napped, preparing for another sleepless night of rigging contests.