The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 19

The funeral procession consisted of a dozen armed guards on horseback riding fore and aft of two covered carts, the first containing the jewel- and gold-inlaid box that carried Leyne and the second his belongings. Two emissaries of Shisen drove the former carriage and two guardsmen the latter. The palomino trailed, tethered to the second coach. Prince Edward, Nightfall, and Kelryn rode alongside the caravan, their conversation sparse even toward the end of the month of travel between Tylantis and Alyndar. Edward floated from states of unbearable depression, to giddy story-telling, to sentiment seemingly without pattern or stimulus. Nightfall preferred the times when he told bittersweet tales about his brother and his past. These seemed most normal.

The procession stopped frequently to ice the body, for supplies, and to rest. Everywhere, the town or village folk met them with honor and pity, free with trite phrases that quickly became more tedious than consoling. The trip bored Nightfall, leaving him with far too much time to consider his decision. He still had a month and a half in which to complete Prince Edward’s landing, but he had run out of possibilities. He had no way to guess- what effect, if any, Leyne’s death might have on his magically enforced task. Clearly, Rikard could have given his youngest son property at any time; according to Leyne, the winning process and the display of responsibility mattered more to the king. Yet, given the circumstances, King Rikard might want to keep his only remaining son safe at home and groom him for the ruling position he might someday take. Surely, the hammer-handed king could not risk sending the only prince away with a vicious murderer now that he had no other heirs. Or did he? Nightfall squinted, knowing little about the passage of titles among royalty.

The question haunted Nightfall all the way to the borders of Alyndar. As Edward’s lucid moments increased to become the more common norm, Nightfall finally managed to broach the topic without sounding as if he saw Leyne’s death as an opportunity rather than a calamity. The day had dawned fair, the sun strong and clouds rare, a welcome change from the rains that had followed them from Tylantis. Riding between Edward and Kelryn, Nightfall went directly to the heart of the matter. “Master, are you now Alyndar’s crown prince?"

Edward remained silent for some time, clearly considering. Surely, the thought had to have entered his mind sometime before in the month since Leyne’s death, yet he had no ready answer. "I don’t know. By strict laws of ascension, if my father died without a specified heir, I would become king. But the decision lies with my father. He has the right to choose any noble. I have seven cousins, several of whom are far more worthy than me-"

Nightfall could not help but interrupt. "No one is more worthy, Master."

Edward shrugged, taking his squire’s familiar devotion in stride, but Nightfall could see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of the prince’s mouth. "Even after all this time, your loyalty is touching, Sudian." He turned his head to meet the blue-black eyes. "I wish I could tell you how much your company means to me. Aside from my mother, you’re the only person who ever cared about and supported me for what I am, not from duty to my father or personal gain. Without your boldness and sincere faith in me, I’d still be off chasing shadows, accomplishing nothing more than clownishly shaming my family and myself."

Edward’s eyes brimmed with tears, as they had so many times over the past month; but this time, he cried for other reasons. Reining his horse closer, he caught Nightfall’s wrist. "My causes haven’t changed, nor my need to right the injustices some have suffered since long before my birth. But my paths to those goals have descended from the clouds. Here, in reality, they twist and wind for miles, riddled with mountains and barricades; but we can fight our way through or around those. Effort never daunted me when the cause was right." The grin blossomed until it seemed to light his entire face. He drew his horse closer and clasped Nightfall’s forearm without jerking the rein. "Now that Leyne’s gone, you’re the only true friend I have. I love you, Sudian."

The words caught Nightfall by surprise, and he choked on the necessary reply, not because he did not share the sentiment but because circumstance stole all meaning from it. Edward had become like a younger brother to him, and the constant need to protect had become far more than forced responsibility or habit. The phrase "I love you" seemed shallow and meaningless to Sudian, a bridge between beatings, a random string of words that hours later might become "I hate you, you worthless spawn of demon seed." Nightfall could not help wondering what about him had changed that so many he considered good people loved him when his own mother never could. "I love you, too." For once, he left off the "master," knowing it would weaken the moment at a time when Edward needed strength. He also left off the usual series of raving compliments. Deception now would only enhance the guilt Nightfall could not escape. He had plundered Edward’s emotions on pretext, and no theft of an object ever seemed as cruel. The friend Edward believed in so staunchly was a slave in magical bondage. The only man who respected the younger Nargol for himself was a lie.

As the procession arrived at the castle gates, Kelryn rode to Edward’s other side. Citizens followed them through the streets, whispering their observations, as if they might inadvertently awaken the lifeless prince. Guards met the carriages, spoke in earnest with the Shisenian officials, then ushered the coaches and escorts into the courtyard. Alyndarian guards, nobility, and servants approached the carriages with appropriate pomp and dignity, preparing to reclaim their crown prince and his possessions in a ceremony Nightfall and, apparently, Edward had no interest in witnessing. Travel-worn, weary, and broken, the younger prince needed his sleep, and Nightfall found that matter far more urgent. He glanced about the courtyard, now thronged with Alyndarians quietly performing their roles in the bleak formalities.

Stable hands managed the horses, and Prince Edward, Nightfall, and Kelryn approached the castle entryway on foot. Attentive guards with poleaxes met them at the door, and the taller of the two addressed Edward. "Lord prince, King Rikard asked that you wash up and rest. He’ll meet you in the North Tower chapel later." His glance rolled to Kelryn. "The guest chamber is prepared for your lady friend."

Edward nodded, and the guard turned his attention to Nightfall. “‘Sudian, the king asked that you go directly to the Great Hall. I’ll escort you."

The idea of abandoning Edward now raised a dangerous prickle from the oath-bond. He had not seen Gilleran since the murder, and he harbored little doubt the sorcerer had returned here. Nightfall shook his head. "Please tell King Rikard I’ll be along shortly."

The guardsman’s bushy brows rose high enough to disappear beneath his helmet. "King Rikard requested your presence right away."

Nightfall remained composed. "And he will get it, but not before I assist my master."

The sentry glared. "King Rikard does not care for delays."

Nightfall ignored the warning. "My duty is to my master the prince, not to the king. If you’ll excuse us." He headed for the open castle door, hoping his movement would naturally sweep Edward and Kelryn along with him.

The maneuver failed. Though he meant well, Edward said the words Nightfall dreaded. "It’s all right, Sudian. It’s bad to slight a king, especially my father. I’ll do fine without you."

The oath-bond intensified. Nightfall paused in the doorway, turned, and made a gracious bow to Prince Edward. "With all respect, Master, I am going to tend you first. The king will understand." He stared directly at Edward, hoping his expression conveyed his complete lack of compromise on the matter to the prince rather than the guards.

Prince Edward opened his mouth to speak, and Kelryn gave him a mild warning kick in the shin. Startled, Edward closed his mouth and glanced at her instead. Kelryn shook her head slightly, then lifted her chin to indicate they should continue forward. Edward took a hesitant step, glanced at Kelryn again, then headed toward the hallway with more confidence. Nightfall and Kelryn trailed him, the magical warning dying.

The guards exchanged glances that indicated they believed Nightfall had made the wrong decision, but they did not try to stop him or say anything more. They would report their duty done. The blame would fall on Nightfall.

Prince Edward led Nightfall and Kelryn through a series of corridors and chambers filled with vases, books, and knickknacks Nightfall assessed from habit. They pattered up a spiral staircase to the third story. Polished rings held unlit lanterns at regular intervals, and tapestries lined the spaces between them except where gilded, teak doors broke the continuity. Prince Edward paused before one door that bore the Alyndarian hand and hammer symbol with inset purple gemstones and lowered his head respectfully.

Nightfall waited for Edward to pay his respects before what was, apparently, Leyne’s bedroom door. After several moments, Edward led his guests to the next room, similarly decorated except for the absence of the jewels. He pushed open the door to reveal a vast sleeping chamber that could have held all of the inn rooms they had stayed in on their travels. A wooden frame supported a bed piled high with mattresses and feathered pillows, topped by a colorful quilt with fringes dangling to the floor. Though simple in design, the four posts had been meticulously sanded so that they reflected the light from two high-arched windows into perfect patterns. The room also contained a desk, chair, chest, dressing table and closet, all obviously made by the same craftsman who created the bed frame. The table held an assortment of brushes, combs, and bottles; and a mirror lined the wall above it. Several rugs covered the wooden floor, as intricate as the tapestries wealthy men used to decorate their walls. "My room," he explained unnecessarily.

Prince Edward did not enter. Instead, he continued one door farther down the hallway, opening it to reveal a chamber nearly as large and well-furnished as his own. “Will these quarters suit you, Lady?"

At his side, Kelryn stared in openmouthed silence. For a moment, Nightfall feared she might reply that it would suit her entire village. Instead, she nodded dumbly, the words following only after a strained pause. "Very well. Thank you, Ned."

Edward turned to Nightfall. "And you-"

Nightfall did not allow Edward to finish. "-will stay with you, Master.”

Edward’s features bunched and crinkled. Obviously, he had planned to say something completely different. "That’s not necessary, Sudian. There’s plenty of room for you."

That seemed gross understatement, but also senseless. The amount of space in the castle had nothing at all to do with his choice of sleeping site. "I will stay with you, Master.’” He emphasized the inarguable finality of the statement with tone and expression.

Edward made a gesture of dismissal. “Go see my father, as he requested. We can talk about this later."

Nightfall made no move to obey. As usual, his need to tend to security overrode his obedience to Edward’s command. "Your safety comes first, Master, your father’s wants a distant second."

“Safety?" Still in the guest room doorway, Edward studied his squire. "You’re being ridiculous, Sudian. I’m home. There’s no danger here."

Nightfall would not budge. "Where you feel most secure, you are in the most danger. No place is certain sanctuary."

"Disobedience to my father, the king, could make all the dangers in Alyndar seem harmless." A sharp edge entered Edward’s tone. "You’re acting foolishly."

Nightfall shrugged. "Master, I would rather leave you angry at me than dead. I will stay with you. And, until I return from my meeting with the king, you must promise me you won’t leave your room nor open the door for anyone but Kelryn."

"What?" Edward’s eyes widened. Clearly, he meant the word as an exclamatory rather than a question. "What nonsense is this?"

"Master, my only concern is your safety. I will not go until I’ve assured that."

Kelryn stepped in, placing a hand on Edward’s upper arm. “There’s no use fighting it, Ned. He won’t give up, and he means well. The sooner you agree, the less time passes to upset the king." She smiled sweetly. “I’ll stay with you while he’s gone, so you won’t get bored."

Clearly flustered by the touch, Edward lost the will to argue. Surely, boredom had little to do with his reasons for disagreeing, but to deny it meant losing Kelryn’s company. "Very well. Now go. If you keep my father waiting much longer, even I can’t stay his wrath. Go. Go on."

Trusting Edward in Kelryn’s hands, Nightfall obeyed, without suffering any discomfort from the oath-bond. However, he knew a different sort of pain, a deep sadness at the growing bond between Kelryn and Edward. Logic told him that if he truly loved the dancer he would want the best possible life for her. With the prince of Alyndar, she would have that, as well as an ally to share her grief when Gilleran stole his soul. Nightfall headed back up the hallway to the stairs. It seemed the perfect situation for Kelryn, one only chance could arrange. Not only would Edward treat her as kindly as any man could, but he would do so with love and respect. He could give her everything, including the one thing no one else could: positive memories of the demon the whole world otherwise hated.

Yet, despite all of these things, Nightfall headed down the winding staircase with a heart that felt heavy as lead. It made no difference that he would do so willingly and to an opponent far more worthy; giving up the woman he loved ached within him, a burden rather than a choice.

Once at the base of the stairs, Nightfall navigated the corridors to Alyndar’s Great Hall from memory. The walk turned his thoughts from Kelryn to considerations about the king’s motivation for meeting with him. Many possibilities filled his mind, from benign to ridiculous. He discarded all but the most plausible. It made sense that King Rikard would choose to listen to Nightfall’s version of the events of the past several months as being nearer reality than Edward’s. Yet, it seemed to Nightfall that propriety must dictate Rikard discuss matters with his son first. More likely, King Rikard he longer found a need for Nightfall’s services. Reality had stolen enough of Edward’s naive exuberance to allow normal tutors to work with him, and Rikard could no longer give all his direction to his elder son. Kings tended to dispose of what no longer aided or amused them.

Nightfall’s steps slowed at the realization, but he did not falter. This time, running and hiding would not save him. The oath-bond would take him in either instance. At least, if he reasoned with Rikard, he might have a small chance to rescue life as well as soul. At the worst, he trusted his ability to incite enough to believe he could goad king or guards to kill him before the oath-bond took him.

Four sentries with spears and swords stood in front of the massive door that opened onto the courtroom of King Rikard the Hammer-handed. These stepped aside as Nightfall approached. One addressed him. “Sudian, Edward’s squire?"

Nightfall nodded, though he suspected the question came from routine formality. Surely, every guard in Alyndar had learned his description.

"The king has been expecting you." The sentry emphasized the word "has" to indicate a long, impatient wait. He pushed the door ajar.

Nightfall bobbed his head to indicate understanding. Without wasting more time with words, he pressed inside the courtroom and trotted briskly down the carpeted pathway between rows of benches and toward the high-backed chair that served as Rickard’s throne. To Nightfall’s relief, the chancellor’s chair beside the seated king stood empty. The spectators’ benches held no people. The only other occupants of the chamber were a dozen attentive guardsmen spread along walls festooned with paintings and tapestries. Volkmier, the competent, red-haired chief of prison guards who had threatened Nightfall after his fall from the parapets, held a position near the front of the room at the king’s left hand.

Nightfall took his cues from Rikard and Volkmier. The king sat with rigid alertness, his gray-flecked brown curls in mild disarray and his fur-trimmed robe wrinkled. Nightfall suspected the lapses in demeanor had less to do with slovenliness than an unwillingness to steal time or regard from more important matters. The dark eyes told all, hard with a steely gleam that offered no kindness or mercy. Clearly, he had not called Nightfall only to request news of the past months.

Volkmier’s stance seemed as unyielding as Rikard’s expression, though Nightfall guessed he echoed the king’s mood from duty or concern rather than any suspicions of his own. Kelryn had seen through his disguise, but she had known him as no one else but Dyfrin could. Surely, if King Rikard told anyone about the oath-bond, he would select a chief among his guards; but Nightfall felt certain Gilleran would convince him to keep the arrangement fully secret. Even without the sorcerer’s input, it seemed foolish to discuss such a dangerous matter with anyone.

Nightfall stopped the proper distance from the king, knelt, and bowed his head to his chest. He remained in position, waiting for Rikard to speak. His other senses kept him keenly aware of every movement of king or guards, though he did not bother to focus. A sudden attempt to harm or kill him seemed the least of his worries now.

After a period that seemed excessive to Nightfall, Rikard spoke, but he addressed the guards rather than the man he had summoned. "Away with all of you. I wish to talk with Sudian alone."

Nightfall held his pose, listening to the hiss of movement and the gentle, scarcely audible rattle of mail under tunics. Heavy footfalls tracked the far side of the rows of benches then came together to approach the door. One by one, the sentries filed from the room. Yet, Nightfall could tell, without vision, that Volkmier still had not obeyed.

King Rikard waited until the door clicked closed before addressing his chief prison guard. "Alone, Volkmier."

Now, Nightfall heard the swish of fabric as Volkmier obviously made some grand gesture of respect. “Sire. I will not leave you unprotected.”

Nightfall could not help smiling at the familiar words, glad his position hid his expression from the others.

King Rikard sounded annoyed and impatient. ‘“I’m in no danger from Sudian. Go."

Volkmier only repeated. “Sire, I will not leave you unprotected.”

"It is not a request. It is an order."

"And I am loyal to your orders, Sire. Most so to the one that I will not leave you unguarded among men I do not know. Sire, I will not leave you unprotected.”

Only concern for his own fate kept Nightfall from laughing at the irony. He remained still, not even bothering to sneak a look at the insistent guardian. He could judge mood and intention well enough by tone alone.

"Very well," King Rikard said at length, sounding much like his youngest son. "Stay, then, but do not listen. Words spoken in private must remain so." Finally, he addressed Nightfall. “Sudian, guard your tongue."

Nightfall rose and raised his head, an action allowed by the king’s acknowledgment. He guessed that the king intended that he say nothing in Volkmier’s presence that would reveal his persona or the oath-bond, but the warning seemed unnecessary. The first he could not do as a condition of the magic; the second disclosure would do him more harm than good. He recalled the captain’s warning from the parapets, the honest rage behind the vow still vivid: "If you give me the slightest excuse, I’ll shoot you dead and revel in it."

King Rikard shifted, as if to flex every colossal muscle on his warrior’s frame. He riveted his gaze on Nightfall’s face. "Did you kill my son?"

Nightfall stared, frankly stunned. This question he had not anticipated in any version of his speculation. "What?" Surprise shocked amenity from him, and a long while passed in quiet before he added, "Sire."

Volkmier’s eyes and nostrils widened. As commanded, he feigned deafness in that he took no action nor made any comment.

Rikard repeated, "Did you kill my son?"

"Your son, Sire? Prince Leyne Nargol?" The suggestion seemed too ludicrous to contemplate.

The king became relentless, though patient. “Yes. You killed him, didn’t you?” The tone was flat, indicative of a rage so massive there could be no containment.

Nightfall knew he could say nothing King Rikard would believe. Guilty or innocent, he had no choice but to deny the allegation; yet he harbored no hope that he might be trusted. "No." He met the eyes of guard and king with level honesty. “Sire, you know I couldn’t have."

King Rikard rose. He spun suddenly, hands clenched, back to Nightfall. At last, it seemed, anger had driven him even beyond speech.

Nightfall waited patiently beneath Volkmier’s ceaseless scrutiny.

The king knelt, fishing something from behind his seat that clanged as he moved it. He tossed several objects to the floor: first the torn, brown and green cinch strap that had belonged to Sir Takruysse, then four pieces of two different sparring swords. As each item struck the wood with a clatter, he studied Nightfall’s reaction to them.

Nightfall raised his brows slightly, eyes tracing every movement. The display told him much he did not like, though it did not surprise him. Only one man could have learned of his tricks in such detail and would gather the physical evidence, one who could read his mind.

King Rikard produced one more item, a battered, bloodstained work of steel and leather that had once formed a helmet, the one Leyne had worn in the final tourney. Now Nightfall could see that someone had thinned the crown to a half or quarter thickness which explained why Sander’s single blow had proven fatal. Rikard’s voice sounded choked and uncharacteristically feeble. “Do you know these things, Sudian?”

Nightfall saw no advantage to lying. "Yes, I do, Sire." Gilleran’s intention and purpose seemed abundantly clear. Like so many others, he had easily copied Nightfall’s methods, using the similarities to ascertain guilt. It only remained for the sorcerer to devise some explanation of how Nightfall had escaped the constraints of the oath-bond in order to murder the crown prince of Alyndar. King Rikard clearly expected clarification, so Nightfall supplied it. "Sire, I admit I rigged the cinch strap and the swords. In my situation, I believe most men would have done the same. But my later attempts to cheat failed, and my master won every contest from that time without my help." He met the shrewd, dark eyes with an expression at least as somber. "Sire, your younger son has more ability than you or he or anyone gives him credit for."

Volkmier fidgeted, obviously troubled.

Nightfall hoped the guard was responding to the confessions of fraud rather than his own words. His time with Edward suggested that royalty despised any comments that put their past judgments about anything in doubt. "As a ruler, there’s nothing wrong with Prince Edward Nargol that age, a few confrontations with reality, and some lessons from his father couldn’t fix."

King Rikard’s eyes narrowed, but he remained too preoccupied to take offense from Nightfall’s speech… yet. "You’re avoiding the question."

Nightfall fell silent, expression open with uncertainty. "The question of the helmet?"

"Yes."

"Sire, I had nothing to do with it."

The king said nothing, only stared with a look that encouraged Nightfall to continue.

Nightfall shrugged. "There’s nothing more to say, Sire. Even had I need or reason, you know I could not have harmed Prince Leyne in any way."

King Rikard relented slightly. "I don’t believe you intended to kill him, only to eliminate him as competition for Ned.”

Nightfall saw no cause for arguing the point. "Your Majesty, I can’t deny that I considered ways to give my master an advantage, even over his brother. But I never touched that helmet."

"No one else had cause to do so, aside from Prince Sander, whose honor I would not disparage."

"Nor I, Sire." Nightfall would not shuffle guilt onto an innocent, no matter how obvious a target. He kept his gaze steady, knowing few things bespoke guilt as completely as restless eyes. "I didn’t survive this long by painting myself bullseye yellow and writing ‘I’m guilty’ on my forehead nor am I foolish enough to skirt the edges of magic that could-”

The king made a sudden, cutting gesture that hushed Nightfall. Clearly he had said more than Rikard wanted Volkmier to know.

Nightfall continued more carefully. "Sire, when you consider the goal as murdering Leyne rather than winning the tourney, the list of suspects becomes much longer. Whenever the answer seems too obvious, look to the source of your information.”

"I’ve heard enough!" King Rikard kicked the helmet, sending it skittering across the floor. It crashed against the wall, now riddled with new dents. “You’re a killer, and I was an old fool to trust you near either of my sons."

Volkmier tensed, awaiting a direct command.

Nightfall instinctively mimicked his actions for the same reason. When no edict followed, he broke the excessive quiet that followed the king’s display of violence. "Sire, if you truly believed I murdered Leyne, you wouldn’t have called me in to ask. You would only have meted punishment.”

King Rikard’s face purpled. “Don’t gainsay my motives. Who in the Father’s blackest, coldest, empty hell do you think you are?"

Nightfall dodged the question, preferring to finish the meeting before anger drove the king to irrational action.

"Sire, am I under arrest?"

"I haven’t decided yet." King Rikard studied the assortment of ruined objects on the floor.

"Then, Sire, perhaps I can make your choice simpler.” Nightfall turned his gaze to Volkmier, meeting sharp green eyes beneath a fringe of red bangs. He had faced off with the chief prison guard twice now, neither an experience he wished to repeat. "I perceive danger to Prince Edward here. If anyone tries to keep me from him, I’ll have no choice but to fight my way free in any way I can. You may lose a guard or two. At best, I’ll get the quick, painless death that seems the most I can hope for at the moment." He glanced back at Rikard who had retaken his seat, obviously calmer. "If you free me, you know precisely where to find me if you change your mind."

Volkmier prodded for his next course of action. "Sire?"

King Rikard scrutinized Nightfall as if to memorize every detail. He lingered longest on the eyes, and Nightfall met him stare for stare. He had told only the truth, boldly forthright, and nothing about his story could or would vary in the future. "Dismissed, Sudian."

Volkmier frowned, maintaining the verbal distance he had promised but obviously confused by his king’s choice. "Sire?"

King Rikard addressed his guard, switching to an unrelated matter to emphasize the finality of his order. "Volkmier, send someone to tell Edward I’ll meet him in the North Tower chapel right away." He turned some of his aggravation inappropriately on his captain. "I need some time alone with my son. I presume you’ll trust me with Ned and won’t force yourself on us."

Nightfall turned and headed from the Great Hall of Alyndar without looking back.

King Rikard watched Nightfall leave, sensing rather than seeing Volkmier’s alert presence still poised to protect him. Guilt knifed through his belly, and he regretted the annoyance his own befuddlement caused him to channel against one of his most loyal servants, one into whose hands he had placed the defense and defenders of Alyndar. In no mood for apologies and intolerant of displays of affection, he expressed his regret in the form of including Volkmier in his considerations. "What do you think?"

Volkmier paused, apparently trying to divine the purpose of the question. "At your request, Sire, I heard nothing."

Rikard dismissed his previous order with a wave. "Surely you have an opinion about Edward’s squire."

The guard’s chief hesitated longer. Then, he spoke his mind, surely realizing his relationship with Alyndar’s king had gone far beyond the testing stage. "I have many opinions about him."

The king raised his brows, sincerely interested. He trusted Volkmier’s wisdom as well as his physical competence, though never so much as he had Leyne’s. "Speak your mind.”

Volkmier assessed Nightfall. "No simple peasant’s son, that one, Sire. He has a nimbleness and quickness about him that suggests an acrobat, juggler, or dancer. Or perhaps a sailor." He shook his head. “But then, too, he has a vigilance that seems innate. I’ve only ever seen that about a fighting man, though he doesn’t appear to have the strength or size of a warrior." Volkmier put all of his clues together. "If I had to guess, Sire, I’d say a farm boy. An animal farm. The type that’d use his off-time to slip into the pastures to ride stallions and bulls for sport."

King Rikard wearied of the taboo he had created. "You may speak freely with me about the events that transpired here today. What do you think of what he said?"

Volkmier relaxed along with the conversation. His stance returned to attentive normal, freed of the rigidness he had adopted for Nightfall. "I believe him, Sire."

The short, direct reply startled Rikard. "What?"

"Sire, I didn’t understand much of the conversation, so I can only judge from tone and expression.” A strand of sweat-plastered orange hair slid free of his helmet to sprawl across his forehead. "But every line of his attitude, every set of his face, and, most of all, the eyes bespoke integrity."

The words surprised King Rikard. He paced around his chair, trying to process the information in the light of what he already knew. He, too, could not deny an inclination to trust Nightfall’s claims, this time at least; and many of the demon’s words struck home for him as they could not for Volkmier. He had trusted his chancellor too completely and too long to believe a lying, traitorous stranger first; yet, when it came to matters involving Nightfall, Rikard had already seen a side of Gilleran that seemed disparately cold. Is it possible that Leyne’s death was an accident? Could some other a jealous noble or an enemy of Alyndar have switched the helmet? Could it be that Gilleran drew the wrong conclusion, worse, used the opportunity to lay the blame on a man he hates? King Rikard shook his head to clear it from a line of thought that seemed ludicrous. To believe the word of a criminal over that of a long-loyal retainer seemed madness. Maybe, Gilleran just made a mistake. "What if I told you Sudian was a man experienced in deception and trickery?"

Volkmier stiffened, obviously taken back. “Sire, I would have no choice but to say he fooled me; but I’m in good company." He stroked some object in his tunic pocket, roughly rectangular in shape. "Or, perhaps, Sire, I’m just influenced by this." Thrusting his hand inside the pocket, he drew out a book. The dyed purple cover and its decorative swirls in silver leaf identified it at once as Leyne’s journal. "Forgive me, Sire, for bringing up such matters before the funeral, but the time seems right. Would you mind, Sire?"

King Rikard stopped before his chair, eyes narrowing with uncertainty. “This is germane?"

Volkmier explained. "Sire, it’s Leyne’s impression of Sudian."

Rikard dropped into his seat. Leyne’s ability to assess people and their intentions had always impressed him. He wanted to hear, but the grief was still too fresh. Leyne’s words in the voice of another man, opinions that survived beyond his death. He closed his eyes, picturing his most beloved son as the author of Volkmier’s speech. "Go ahead."

Volkmier cleared his throat. "It’s dated the fourteenth day of the Month of Plenty."

Two days before his murder. King Rikard felt tears sting his eyes and angrily banished them as weak and foolish.

Volkmier read: "… Finally met Sudian face to face. Must admit I mistrusted him at first. Felt certain those timid features and boyish dedication hid a greed only a prince’s gold could satisfy. Am thrilled to know I judged him wrong. The changes in Ned are nothing short of miraculous, the kind of self-control and understanding that could only come, l thought, with decades of experience. His dangerous exuberance has gained direction, now nothing short of determination. No doubt, Sudian is the cause. I tested the promises of loyalty I mistrusted and now find them as genuinely solid as the bond between my father and myself…" Captain Volkmier trailed off. "He went on to talk about the contests. Do you want to hear more?"

The king’s lip trembled, and he resisted speech until he felt capable of hiding his weakness. "No, not now." He reached for the book. "I’ll read the rest in private, when other matters don’t compete for my attention.” He reached for the journal, and Volkmier passed it to his king.

Back in Alyndar’s corridors, Nightfall navigated from habit, his thoughts riveted on the events in Rikard’s courtroom. Hope died, leaving only the familiar, bare spark that had allowed him to survive since childhood; yet that seemed more mockery than tool. His mind found the loophole, as it always did. Once the necessary grief-sharing and services had concluded, he would find some way to talk Edward into sneaking away from Alyndar for another attempt at landing. Duke-heir Willafrida seemed his most likely possibility once again. With Leyne gone, the duke could no longer set his sights on Alyndar’s eldest prince. Surely, Edward could learn to love her.

Yet, even discovering a solution did not lift Nightfall’s spirits. His time with Edward had taught him the difference between living happy and merely living, and survival had become a poor motivator when it meant condemning Edward, Kelryn, and himself to lifelong bitterness. Though not quite ready to discard the possibility of another means of landing, the best solution seemed obvious. Surely, Nightfall could find a way to antagonize King Rikard, Gilleran, or his retainers into murdering him before the oath-bond took him. Then, Edward and Kelryn could make a happy life together, even without the support of Alyndar’s king.

Nightfall continued toward Prince Edward’s quarters, persisting in his personal war now only from habit. It made sense to know the best result at any specific time; but, when the solution was permanent and extreme, to act before necessity seemed senseless. For now, he would follow the demands the oath-bond set on him, and his own heart when possible, and hope the possibility of dying violently would remain when the time came for final, irreversible decision.

Nightfall trotted up the winding staircase. The oath-bond had remained at baseline, nagging without driving, throughout his time away from Edward. Now, as realization of the length of time he had left the prince came to the fore, it amplified to a disquieting buzz that reminded Nightfall of the danger posed by the sorcerer who had cast the spell. Having a better feel for the players, Nightfall pieced together the various motivations for creating the situation that trapped him. Gilleran’s intentions had seemed clear nearly since the beginning; he had found a means to all but ascertain possession of Nightfall’s soul and natal gift. Likely, King Rikard’s choice of execution, even for a criminal as notorious as Nightfall, would have precluded Gilleran’s ceremony. By talking the king into the oath-bond, Gilleran had assured his prize and, at the same time, placed the youngest prince at the fate of a practiced and conscienceless killer.

The king’s reasons continued to puzzle Nightfall, and they seemed complex. First, Gilleran surely used his long relationship, and possibly magic, to assist the decision. Whether Rikard also hoped for the deaths of two pests or truly believed the association would benefit Edward, Nightfall still could not fathom. The private conversation between king and prince would bring answers, shedding light on their relationship. He dared to hope it would prove positive; Edward and Leyne had to have gotten their sense of justice and fair play from some source.

Nightfall had just turned his contemplations to his own fate when he heard light footsteps on the stairs above, headed toward him. The curve of the spiral staircase hid the approaching figure from view. Nightfall stopped, keeping close to the rail to leave space for the other to pass. As soon as he did, Gilleran swung around the corner, his mousy hair neatly combed and in place. A scar puckered the skin between cheek and ear. His blue eyes seemed to smolder, and a frown crept slowly down his mouth. “So. He chose to let you go. How could our good king make such an error?"

Nightfall watched the sorcerer’s approach without flinching. He felt confident Gilleran would not attempt his ceremony in the castle in plain view of any guard, Nargol, or noble who happened upon it. Anything less, Nightfall felt prepared to handle. If Gilleran wished to banter words, Nightfall would give him cause to worry. "Perhaps he finally realized his chancellor is a scheming rodent posing as a man."

Nightfall thought the insult mild and unoriginal, unworthy of his reputation, but Gilleran took it far more seriously. He punched at Nightfall’s face. A side step rescued Nightfall, and Gilleran’s momentum staggered him. He lurched forward, catching the railing for support.

Now uncomfortably close, Gilleran jabbed a finger at the scar. "You will pay for this."

The oath-bond flared even before Nightfall recognized the murderous hatred that had arisen within him. Its pain stole his attention for an instant that proved his downfall.

Suddenly, Gilleran planted both hands on Nightfall’s chest and shoved.

The unexpected tactic toppled Nightfall. He crashed to the stairs, their irregularity stamping bruises the length of his back. His head struck one hard enough to slap his jaw shut. White light flashed across his vision, then all coordination left him. He tumbled and rolled, scrabbling wildly for purchase and balance, the hard edge of each step a hammering agony against flesh. About halfway down, he caught hold of the railing, pulled to a jarring halt that wrenched every tendon in his arm. Though dazed and disoriented, he forced himself to look up.

Gilleran rushed after Nightfall, gaining the stair above just as Nightfall recognized the danger. Gilleran’s boot smashed into his face. Pain exploded through Nightfall’s nose, spidering along his cheeks and eyes to his already aching head. Though thrown backward again, he held his grip, assaulted by an agony that seemed to come at him from every direction. Rage drove him to murder, inciting the oath-bond to a frenzy that dwarfed the physical injury. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, but the magic would not allow it.

Gilleran drove another kick for Nightfall’s face.

Survival won. Nightfall snatched the foot in flight, stopping it fingers’ breadths from his left eye. Gilleran twisted, equilibrium lost. The oath-bond stabbed and twisted, wrenching an involuntary scream from Nightfall’s lungs that he only partially choked back. He lurched to his feet, steadying Gilleran as he gently lowered the foot to the step, hating the thwarted vengeance the oath-bond had stolen from him. The instant he did, Gilleran caught him with a backhand slap that sent him tumbling down three more stairs.

Gilleran rushed Nightfall. A sound on the upper landing drew Nightfall’s attention, a soft scuff amplified by the sound-funneling staircase. Kelryn bent over the railing, clutching a vase the size of her head. Desperation tempered Nightfall’s joy. The oath-bond became a consuming bonfire spurring him to protect the very man self-preservation drove him to destroy. He stumbled to his feet, leaping to knock Gilleran from the path of the missile in the same motion.

Kelryn hurled the vase. Oblivious, Gilleran jerked away from what he naturally construed as an attack by Nightfall. The vase struck his shoulder, sprawling him into Nightfall. It crashed to the steps, spraying pottery chips that stung Nightfall’s face and arms. Both men careened down the final stairs in a wild, clawing frenzy, landing in a heap at the bottom. Pinned beneath Gilleran’s weight, Nightfall shook his head to clear it. The oath-bond pulsed and diminished in waves, and the wounds from his fall seemed to do the same. Kelryn scurried down the stairs toward them.

Gilleran stumbled to his feet. "Guards!" he screamed. "Guards!"

Apparently, the sentries had already been drawn by the noise, because two arrived while Kelryn still negotiated the final dozen steps.

"Take him away!" Gilleran jabbed a finger at Nightfall. "He tried to kill me."

Nightfall sat up, overemphasizing his injuries to make himself seem less threatening. He tasted blood. He wiped it from his nose, managing little more than to further smear it across his face.

Kelryn defended Nightfall. “He did not. I saw it all."

The Alyndarian guardsmen studied the scene before exchanging glances. One gave Gilleran a short, stiff bow. "Sir?"

Gilleran obliged. "This servant ambushed me on the stairs. He hit me over the head with a vase, then tripped me. If I hadn’t gotten hold of him as I fell, he’d have killed me."

"That’s not what happened!" Kelryn shouted. "I’m the one who threw the vase."

Nightfall waved her silent briskly. Her involvement would accomplish nothing more than getting her arrested also. The terms of the oath-bond cast on her, to say nothing negative about Gilleran in any situation a Nargol might overhear, would keep her from speaking the truth. Likely the noise had or would draw prince or king; if it came to trial, both would certainly attend.

Gilleran shook his head in dismissal. "The lady is protecting him. I don’t know why." He straightened his silks. “Lock him up."

The guards set to their duty, first assisting Nightfall to his feet. "Come with us."

Nightfall lowered his head, cooperative with every movement and gesture. Blood dripped from his injured nose, leaving a trail of droplets on the parquet. He continued to feign worse injuries than he had received, wishing his head would stop pounding and allow him to think. So long as the guards believed him submissive and wounded, they would treat him gently.

Soon to be left alone with Gilleran, Kelryn retreated several steps but did not run. Her stance bespoke courage, and her eyes glimmered with determination. She had promised never to freeze in the sorcerer’s presence again, and she had not. Obviously torn between rescuing Nightfall and his direct command, she protested only feebly. "You’re making a mistake.”

Nightfall hoped Kelryn’s newfound boldness would not prove her downfall. "It’ll get sorted out." Nightfall modulated his voice to try to soothe her without forsaking his pained and hopeless act. In truth, he felt nearly as broken as he looked. The oath-bond’s fury at his thoughts of breaching one tenet had died away, but another soon rose to replace it. Gilleran had set his scheme in motion when he murdered Prince Leyne. With Nightfall in custody, no obstacle stood between him and the younger prince. As the oath-bond rose to a tearing shriek within him, he put his misery into words for Kelryn. "My master?"

Kelryn caught the unspoken need beneath the question. "He’s fine. Meeting his father on the seventh floor chapel in the North Tower."

Nightfall appreciated Kelryn’s thorough description. Though no Dyfrin, she could read him better than he dared to expect.

One of the Alyndarian guards prodded Nightfall. "Come on."

"Stay alert,” Gilleran warned. "He’s quicker and more violent than he seems. Shackles are in order here; and backup as soon as possible.”

The guardsmen exchanged looks that Nightfall read as contempt for soft nobility who over-aggrandized the danger to men trained to war. Nevertheless, they kept him between them, scrutinizing his every movement and holding their own stances well-balanced. They searched him in the hallway, with an exhaustive thoroughness that far exceeded that of the duke’s men, and uncovered all of the throwing daggers as well as a myriad of seemingly harmless objects in his pockets, including Brandon Magebane’s stone.

Sight of the latter object brought realization, hope, and remorse at once. When it had failed to remove the oath-bond, the spell-stone had become essentially forgotten. Now, Nightfall realized, he had carried the means to rescue Leyne from Gilleran’s magic. At the thought, guilt flared, then died abruptly. The tactic would only have delayed the inevitable. Preventing one spell might have surprised Gilleran, but no more than the danger of a thrown dagger; and Nightfall could not have stopped a second attempt moments later. Experience told him the stone had no effect on spells already cast, so he doubted directing it against Gilleran’s flight would have had any significant consequences.

Nightfall pretended to pay the guards little heed, though he memorized the placement of every one of his possessions. He anticipated, but cursed, the caution with which the guard placed the daggers at his belt. Though simple, a theft would prove obvious, and Nightfall would find himself facing trained guardsmen when his own weapons had come only half-free. The harmless-appearing stone slid into a tunic pocket that he could plunder in his sleep. Nightfall could regather his other equipment as easily; however, none of it seemed worth the trouble or the risk.

An unrelated idea flashed through Nightfall’s mind, and the oath-bond’s goading riveted his attention fully. The private meeting between king and prince, without guards, would make the perfect circumstance for Gilleran to work his evil. The oath-bond hammered at Nightfall, driving him to rip free of their grip and charge to the North Tower chapel. But, for once, common sense intervened. Now more accustomed to the magic’s sting and howl, he learned to think around it, to separate physical pain from idea. If he harmed these sentries, it would start a manhunt that involved the entirety of Alyndar’s guard force, all of whom would want his blood. The wild romp that had reunited him with Edward in the citadel of Schiz’ duke would not work so easily here. It made far more sense for him to allow the imprisonment, slip free of the restraints and locks, then head up the parapets to the North Tower leaving no one the wiser.

Instead of placating, the consideration turned the oath-bond to a shrill whine in his ears, and knifing pains in his gut twisted more sharply. The sudden change doubled him over, and he sank to the tiled floor. Only then, he understood. Foiling manacles and shackles, picking prison locks, and escaping from Alyndar’s dungeon would identify him as Nightfall as few other actions could.

The guards halted, reaching to assist Nightfall to his feet. Clutching his abdomen with one hand, Nightfall gave the other freely, clasping the guard’s fingers in a weak and clammy grip still smeared with blood. He increased his weight to a reasonable maximum, feigning frailty. Then, as the other pulled him toward a stand, Nightfall dropped his weight as low as possible. The abrupt loss of resistance sent the sentry staggering backward. Nightfall snatched the Magebane’s stone from the guard’s pocket, then sprinted down the corridor through which they had come.

"Halt! Stop!" The other guardsman charged after Nightfall as his companion struck the ground. "Prisoner free! Alarm! Alarm! Prisoner free in the south hall."

Nightfall increased his speed, racing down the hallway with little consideration to a goal. Within moments, he heard pounding footsteps and the chitter of mail echoing through the crisscrossing corridors and rooms. It would take time for the many sentries at their various stations to converge, but Nightfall felt certain it would happen long before he reached the northern side of the castle, let alone breezed up the seven flights of stairs.

The oath-bond’s insistence became an agony that over-turned his senses. Nightfall staggered, pain stealing all sense of balance, then toppled to the floor. Momentum sent him skidding over the polished wood floor, rugs crumpling and sliding beneath him. His head filled with the certainty of lethal danger to Prince Edward, and it left no room for other thought. He continued forward, crawling the length of a doorway before gaining his feet through some instinct or miracle he could not fathom. The pain flashed from core to limbs in waves that quickened in narrow increments. Within a dozen steps, it had fused into a constant, straining scream; and within a dozen more, familiarity made it tolerable enough for other thought to squeeze past it. Nightfall realized his best chance lay outside the palace where larger spaces and distance from the royal family would make the pat tern of guardsmen sparser. Once out, he could climb the tower.

The creation of a plan eased the oath-bond just enough to encourage more detailed thought. Weaponless and only a fair warrior, Nightfall dared not consider the possibility of battling his way out of a bastion made to thwart attacking armies. Common sense told him it would make little sense to make the front door impenetrable, then leave other holes for enemies and assassins to slip into the castle. Surely, the ground floor would have no other entrances or exits, with the possible exception of emergency bolt holes for the king’s family. He did not have the time to root out such secret passages. The windows, he felt certain, would be shuttered closed or barred on the lower levels.

Nightfall whipped around a corner. Two guardsmen hastened just as swiftly in his direction, obviously as surprised by his sudden appearance as he by theirs. Nightfall did not slow. He charged them like a war horse, head low, weight high, shoulders braced. They skidded to a halt unevenly, scurrying to block off the way with their bulk.

Nightfall aimed for the closing gap between them, diving through as they positioned. Cloth and mail glided from his arms. Fingers brushed his thigh, and he kicked into a wild dive that sent him tumbling through the corridor. He restored his weight.

"Alarm!" one shouted. “Pantry hall! East heading!" The sentries whirled, pounding a hot pursuit that sounded directly on top of Nightfall.

Nightfall did not waste precious seconds glancing behind him, just galloped onward in uncertain desperation. The oath-bond’s shrill punishment became an unbearable torture to which his body compelled him to surrender. But premonition as well as logic told him that, unlike death, giving in to the magic would not be an ending. To submit meant an inescapable eternity of suffering. Rescuing Edward might supply at least a temporary escape. That observation awakened something more primal. Edward was in danger. Edward was a friend. Oath-bond or none, Nightfall would use every trick at his disposal to rescue his charge.

A stairway loomed in front of Nightfall, its left side flush with the wall, an elaborately carved wooden railing along its right. The hallway continued as well, but Nightfall followed the continuation of his own logic. The lower the floor, the better protected, at least from those trying to enter or escape the castle. A glance told him neither would prove an easy run. Paired palace guards ran toward him from each direction. Nightfall soared up the stairs.

The sentries coming down the steps had slowed their pace to match the terrain. Therefore, they halted and closed ranks much more quickly and easily than their colleagues had in the hallway. Again, Nightfall tucked his chin and rushed them. This time, he met a solid barrier that made his head ring. Impact reeled him backward. His foot skimmed the side of a stair, and he toppled down four steps, stopped by the feet of the chasing guardsmen. One reached down, closing a hand around his forearm.

Nightfall froze, allowing the sentry to hoist him to shaky legs. He met a pair of hard brown eyes beneath a standard-issue helmet, the image blurred and liquid. Only then, Nightfall realized that pain and concern had driven tears to his eyes. The weakness and apparently over-whelming fear of his catch must have surprised the guard as well, because his grip loosened and his expression lost its edge. In that moment, Nightfall sprang for the rail, intentionally squashing the sentry’s fingers between his elbow and the wood. The guardsman recoiled. Nightfall twisted, catching the rail supports, and flung his body over it. For an instant, he hung on the outside of the stairway handrail, guardsmen from the hallway lurching upward, those on the stairs spinning to follow his movement. Nightfall climbed, hand-over-hand, then leapt abruptly to the upper railing. He sprinted across it like a squirrel, a simple feat compared with racing along Raven’s bouncing gunwales. Once past the guards, he jumped to the steps and bounded to the second landing. He crashed through the door, running without bothering to orient.

The guards shouted his location. “Prisoner on the second floor. Kitchen hallway!”

Kitchen. Kitchen. It took Nightfall’s mind inordinately long to wade through the syllables to meaning. Even as he equated food and cooking to the word, the implications struck him. Of all the rooms in a castle, the kitchen would most likely have connections to the outside to prevent the need to haul dead animals, vegetables, and garbage through the castle. He ran past a series of unmarked doors and doorways. Ahead, a double set without knobs or latches perched well above the ground. From a glance, he could tell the folded hinges would allow them to open in either direction. No place but the kitchen could require the need to open doors both ways and without the use of hands. He burst through, flinging the panels to create an inlet.

A girl skittered out of Nightfall’s way, obviously startled by his entrance. He skidded into a massive chamber bustling with servants in livery much like his own but tailored to lower status and protected by stained, white aprons. Cook stoves lined the walls, along with bread spoons, tongs, pottery, steelware, and forks the size of tridents. Tables filled much of the center of the room, covered with cooling baked goods, fruits, and meats. Burdened with what was, apparently, more than their usual chores, the workers paid Nightfall little heed. The crackle of fires, the thump of kneading dough, and the clatter of pans as they were filled or emptied covered his deep, rhythmical panting. The shouts of the guards, however, did not disappear so easily, though their undirected suggestions blended into a roar that revealed nothing specific to the servants.

Then, Volkmier’s commanding bass rose over the uproar. "Six to the royal chambers. Four to the North Tower. The rest of you wait here and guard the exits. No one goes in. lf we damage the kitchen right before the funeral banquet, it’ll be my hide and your heads.” A short hammer of footsteps followed. A moment later, the guards’ talk resumed at a lower tone. A few of the kitchen workers glanced at Nightfall, then returned to their jobs without comment.

Momentarily reprieved, Nightfall reveled in the slowing of his heart back to its normal beat. But the comfort did not last. The pause in his mission sent the oath-bond off on another rending cycle of torment that drove him to action he could not immediately think to take. He followed the line of his previous consideration, eyes searching for some opening to the courtyard before his consciousness recognized the attempt. He discovered a bolted and locked square between the ovens that surely served as a pulley system for heavy products drawn into or lowered from Alyndar’s kitchen. That seemed his most likely possibility, but he doubted even the detached kitchen staff would allow him to jimmy the lock without some comment or warning to the guards. Optionless, he headed toward it, halted by the sight of an elderly woman dumping parings, rotted scraps, and entrails down a chute near a countertop buried in cutting boards and pestles.

Not for the first time, Nightfall appreciated the smaller than average frame hardship had given him. He crossed the room, casually eyeing delicacies his stomach, queasy and twisted from pain, would not tolerate. He kept his movements relaxed, waiting only until the woman turned her back before diving through the narrow slot.

Greased by the sludge, Nightfall slid at a speed that alarmed him. He choked on the rancid stench of discarded and ancient foodstuffs, a minor discomfort compared to the pain assailing him. He took some solace from the realization that, whatever threatened Edward must not yet have killed him. Although Nightfall already guessed the danger came from Gilleran, the dragging of time turned it into gross certainty. Only the sorcerer would dare play cat-and-mouse with Alyndar’s prince, probably waiting to murder until he had Prince Edward and King Rikard oblivious and together.

A moment later, Nightfall spilled into a trough filled with a mixture of foul, unrecognizable offal that made him gag. Disoriented, he rolled free and to his feet, recognizing the grunt and squeal of pigs around him. He wiped fluid from his eyes. He stood in a stable surrounded by sows guarding half-grown piglets that huddled near the enclosing fence. Beyond them, other pens held sheep, goats, and steers. Suddenly, the sows charged him.

Well-aware of the murderous frenzy of protective mother hogs, Nightfall pitched over the ring of sows, rolling to his feet amid a squealing mass of retreating piglets. He clambered over the pen wall, sow teeth ripping though his breeks to his shin, warm blood trickling into his boot. He flung himself out and over the pen, slamming down on a packed pathway strewn with wood chips. Breath jarred from his lungs in a gasp, and the fall stunned him momentarily. The spark of pain seemed to course through his body in slowed motion, as if through water; His every muscle felt torn by magic; his every bone felt broken.

A shadow fell across Nightfall. Still gathering strength to stand, prodded by the oath-bond’s need, he rolled his eyes up to the source. Captain Volkmier stood over him, the point of a spear leveled at Nightfall’s throat. "Be still."

Nightfall fixed a desperate gaze on the red-haired guardsman, digging for his own feelings amidst the drowning presence of the magic. A trickle of wisdom told him to bait the captain to a red rage beyond thought of consequence. Death in this fashion would rescue his soul from Gilleran. But Nightfall sensed something stronger, a need that he hoped came from within, as it seemed, not just an offshoot of the oath-bond. Bound or not, he had to rescue Edward, and Alyndar, from the sorcerer’s evil. He suspected Volkmier had presumed the means of his escape from the kitchen, purposefully misdirecting Nightfall with his instructions to the guards. Harboring no fear of a routine killing but driven to reckless urgency by magic, Nightfall doubted he could remain in position longer than a moment. "May I stand, sir?"

Volkmier’s features opened with surprise at what was, apparently, an unexpected question. "You may sit," he said at length, the spear retreating slightly.

Nightfall rose into a crouch, keeping his hands well in sight. "I’m unarmed.”

The captain ignored the claim. Without taking his eyes from Nightfall, he back-stepped to a bag on the floor. He sorted the contents without looking at them, tossing a pair of opened shackles, then manacles, at Nightfall’s side. "Put them on. No tricks. I’ll check them when you’re done."

The oath-bond struck him with a sharp pain as abrupt and frightening as lightning. It took most of his will to keep from skittering t0 his feet against the captain’s order. He waited for the pain to subside enough to allow speech, then fixed his gaze on Volkmier. "No."

"No?"

"No, sir.” Nightfall could not compromise. Though he could unlock the bonds once placed, the magic had become too insistent for more delays.

Volkmier did not relent. "I didn’t ask a question, Sudian. Do as you’re told."

"I’m trying to." Nightfall fixed the most earnest stare he could muster on Captain Volkmier, then quoted him nearly verbatim. "I was told to protect my master, and I’m bound to his service. I won’t leave him unguarded with men I don’t trust. I won’t leave him unprotected.”

"Your charge is with his father. No danger there.”

Nightfall tensed to rise, goaded to thoughtless action by the oath-bond.

The spear reared back. "Don’t test my aim. I’ve slain zigzagging rabbits smaller than your head."

"No choice." Time constraints made Nightfall’s sentences incomplete. “Kill me if must. Rather die than forsake master." Nightfall sprang to his feet and raced for the exit in a straight line Volkmier could not miss. Without so much as a backward glance, he charged into the courtyard, tensed for a stab through the back that never came. Nor did he hear a clatter to indicate the weapon had been misthrown. Nightfall knew a sudden camaraderie that both, it seemed, could understand. "Look to your own charge," he shouted as he ran. "The king may face the same danger."

Apparently not fully trusting the man he had just released, Volkmier shouted to his men. "Prisoner in the courtyard. Those on duty, man the walls and gates. The rest, inside to the North Tower chapel!"

Volkmier’s command was obviously intended to police Nightfall’s claims and keep him from escaping from the castle grounds. Since he had no intention of doing so, their position posed no threat. It would take time for the guardsmen to enter the door, head north, and clamber to the North Tower, a delay Nightfall dared not spare. He rushed north, praying to the Father the North Tower had been appropriately named. As Alyndar’s guard force rushed alternately to the periphery or the castle entry, Nightfall made a beeline for the northernmost tower.

Daylight turned the stonework into a glaze that revealed no hand or toeholds aside from sundry windows on every level, the ones on the lowest three shuttered and barred. Nightfall vaulted for the first, landing lightly on its ledge. From there, he dropped his weight as low as the wind would allow, shinnying as quickly as a menaced spider, trusting momentum and his featherweight to serve where the craft of the artisans foiled him. Each upward glance brought sunlight glaring into his eyes, the aftermath a bland sequence of lines and spots on the stonework that made grips even harder to find.

Glass paned the fourth and fifth floor windows, apparently to thwart insects. Nightfall doubted any man, himself included, could battle past the courtyard guards and scale the walls without noticeable equipment. Desperation goaded him up walls that had begun to seem glass-smooth and achingly hot from the sun. By the sixth floor, he realized he had lost a boot, and his fingers bled from the minuscule irregularities they groped to clasp repeatedly. Every leg or arm muscle ached, and the stone had abraded his cheek. His nose still throbbed from the fall, and his head pounded. Yet, these pains seemed a blessing. As he approached Prince Edward, the oath-bond had returned nearly to its nagging baseline. He drew some hope from the realization that the sixth floor windows sported no glass, shutters, or bars, just lacy curtains that flapped and spiraled in the wind. Heart pounding, Nightfall dropped his other boot and scooted upward.

The purple curtains on the seventh floor windows matched those on the sixth. Using their fluttering pattern as cover, he peeked into a massive chamber that surely accounted for the entirety of the level. He perched high over a dais that supported a glass case of books, the gold-inlaid box that held Leyne’s body, three hammer-and-fist banners of Alyndar, and a colossal candelabra holding eight burning, purple candles. Prince Edward slumped on the steps leading to the dais, Chancellor Gilleran in front of him, animatedly waving his arms.

I ’m too late. Nightfall’s heart seemed to stop, and pain fluttered through his chest. But the oath-bond remained at its lower level. Apparently, Edward lived. A moment later, a sigh shuddered through his body indicating consciousness as well. Both men wore tailored costumes, as richly dressed as nobility in court. Nightfall assessed the remainder of the room from habit. Wall sconces held lanterns, illuminating the central as well as the outer aisles between lengthy rows of pews. At the far end of the middle aisle, an iron-studded door stood closed.

Nightfall lowered himself through the window, scrambling down the wall to the floor, briefly losing track of his charge in the moments it took to climb. Those few instants cost him surprise.

Edward called out to him softly. "Nightfall."

Nightfall whirled at the address, realizing his mistake as he did so. In his nearly three decades of terrorizing the continent, he had never once crossed personae. Now, he had allowed emotion to steal his composure. He had fallen prey to the oldest and easiest trick in the world.

"Father take me, it’s true." Edward’s voice became an anguished sob, and he crumpled to the steps. "I believed in you. I dared to think someone believed in me. It was all a vicious lie."

Standing over the despondent prince, Gilleran smiled his triumph.

The rising prickles of the oath-bond were Nightfall’s first warning that his hatred had again intensified to thoughts of murder. Whether the news, so close on the heels of Leyne’s death, had overwhelmed Edward by itself or only with some magical assistance from the sorcerer, he did not know or care. He had only two options: win back the prince’s trust and turn him against the chancellor he had known since childhood or battle alone against an enemy he could not harm without destroying himself.

Chancellor Gilleran made the choice for him. "Just in time for the finale." He recited harsh syllables with a gesture that had become familiar, attention on Edward.

Edward lay, curled on the steps, weeping with the same world-oblivious grief he had displayed for his brother. It was a touching, heart-rending tribute, lost on its recipient who had eyes only for Gilleran.

The ice spell. Desperation drove Nightfall into a wild charge, thoughts deliberately focused only on defense. He could not clear the distance to physically disrupt the magic in time. The Magebane’s stone. Nightfall fumbled it free as he ran, shouting to draw what little regard he could seize from Edward’s unreasoning anguish. "Look!" The stone glowed red in his fist, and he turned his concentration to the death spell Gilleran had wrested from Ritworth.

Gilleran waved his hand toward Edward. An angry, blue light blazed from the stone, arching like lightning toward the magical energy. The forces met in silence, but a brilliant explosion of light slashed Nightfall’s vision, flinging sparks in a multicolored rain.

Gilleran retreated with a startled gasp.

Nightfall cleared the distance between then, speaking to Edward without bothering to see if the prince was watching. “See? I had the power to escape the bond at any time. I did believe in you. I chose to stay in your service!" It was a necessary lie. Until he roused Edward, he could accomplish nothing but delay.

"Murdering liar! Demon!" Gilleran undermined whatever confidence Nightfall had reclaimed. His gaze fixed on the stone, now cold and lifeless in Nightfall’s fist; and the icy corpse’s grin returned. "You have no power at all, over it or over me." He lurched toward Nightfall.

Hatred boiled within Nightfall, and he closed before he could think to do otherwise. The oath-bond caught him a blow he could not fend, an abrupt agony that shocked through his body. "No!" he screamed. ‘°Master, run. Save yourself." Before he could regain control of his limbs, Gilleran hammered a fist into his face that sprawled him. Rage and the need for vengeance struck as hard as the blow, bringing a whirlwind response from the oath-bond that spasmed every muscle in his body. Pain only fueled the venom, an ugly cycle he fought to escape. His body jerked into a wild seizure he felt helpless to override.

A boot tip thudded into Nightfall’s chest, stealing what little breath his shuddering lungs managed to gather. Gilleran kicked him repeatedly, shouting epithets Nightfall could not decipher over the roar of the oath-bond’s threat. Dimly, he recognized a series of kicks and blows, heard something crack, and tasted blood. But the physical agony seemed secondary. His mind seemed to slip away, as it had in childhood, separating thought from emotion. The battering became a familiar lull on which to focus his consciousness, its source a nameless creature that bore no relation to anyone he knew. The drive for retribution and self-defense died, unfullfillable, and the oath-bond gave him enough reprieve to feel the stabbing, aching momentos of the beating. And also to realize the pounding had stopped.

Nightfall staggered to his feet, forcing his pain-glazed eyes to focus. The cruelty had snapped Edward from trance to flying rage, and he charged the sorcerer with sword drawn. Gilleran calmly gestured, a spell different from any Nightfall had seen cast before. Logic jerked back to body in an instant. He recalled Kelryn’s description of the cutting magic that had dropped a tree branch on Ritworth. Then, Gilleran had only wanted to trap, not kill. What damage could a force that sharp do to a man? Nightfall sprang for Edward.

Nightfall crashed into the prince just as Gilleran made the final, curt movement. Pain gashed Nightfall’s side, magic opening the flesh from hip bone to buttocks. Edward collapsed, head slamming against a pew with a sickening thud. He slumped to the aisle, and momentum sent Nightfall tumbling over the seat then skidding beneath the pews. He thumped into the dais steps hard enough to jar every wound in his body. Blood smeared the wooden floor. Dizziness assailed him like an enemy, the blanket of buzzing stars that could only come from blood loss.

Nightfall’s eyelids felt heavy, but he forced himself to look. Edward lolled, unconscious, on the floor, his sword a hand’s breadth from his limp fingers. Near the door, the sorcerer started the ice spell again. This time, Nightfall knew he could not prevent it. He had lost, and his soul belonged to Gilleran. The urge to sink into coma, to pray to the Father that death took him first became an obsession. But survival instincts that had become more curse than friend nudged him to action. He staggered to his feet, already too late.

The door jerked open with an echoing snap and squealing hinges. King Rikard of Alyndar stood in the doorway. "Edward, I-"

Gilleran spun, redirecting his spell from surprise or desperation. White light bathed the king’s head. Rikard went still, mouth open, expression fixed. He pitched backward, head striking the floor and shattering. Shards skittered down the hallway, the sound eerily benign, nearly lost beneath the thud of his collapsing body.

Nightfall’s agony seemed to drop a thousand notches in an instant. Still dizzied, it took him longer than it should have to divine the reason. The king is dead and the eldest prince. Edward is king of Alyndar. Edward is landed. Freed from the oath-bond, Nightfall launched himself at Gilleran.

The stomp of footsteps funneled up the staircase, accompanied by the clatter of mail.

Gilleran swore, the ever-present smile becoming a desperate grimace. He whirled, sprinting deeper into the room. An accident in the chapel room that took king and prince, he could have arranged. This, he could never explain. His mad scrambling dash ran him headlong into Nightfall.

Both men sprang at once, Gilleran rising to fly for the window, Nightfall attacking in blood-maddened frenzy. Nightfall tackled the sorcerer, hands scrabbling for the throat, Gilleran twisting and swearing. The magic proved stronger. Gilleran soared upward, Nightfall still clinging and clawing for a better hold. As the Alyndarian sentries reached their king, some elbowing past to find the culprit, Gilleran and Nightfall shot through the window.

Once in free air, Gilleran fought back, planting his fingers on Nightfall’s face and raking his nails over flesh. Nightfall tossed his head, saving his eyes. The movement nearly cost him his grip. Gilleran spun, kicking and flailing to free himself from Nightfall’s encumbrance. The ground lay seven stories beneath them. Gilleran spiraled higher, ensuring Nightfall’s death when his grip finally failed.

Nightfall hid fear behind desperation and will. His mind filled with swimming spots, and his vision gave him only whirling pictures of tree tops, guards leaning from the tower window, and the courtyard far below them. Gilleran’s struggles and blood loss stole his coordination and, soon, his hold on the sorcerer. If I fall, I die. If we both fall, we both die. The choice was easy. Eventually, Gilleran would have to touch down, but Nightfall dared not risk the chancellor’s escape. He could not bear the cost in friends’ lives. He closed his eyes, concentrating on a quick prayer. Seven Sisters, may my death, at least, not be in vain. He opened his eyes, feeling an inner peace that he tried to believe came from divinity, though the absence of the oath-bond after so many months seemed the more likely explanation. He locked holds on Gilleran’s arm and belt, driving his weight to its maximum. They plummeted.

Gilleran screamed, writhing. He pounded on Nightfall’s wrists, then eeled his head and buried his teeth in the squire’s thumb.

Nightfall jerked, saving his finger instinctively, but losing the arm grip. Tree limbs snapped like twigs beneath them. Nightfall dropped his weight as the ground rushed up to meet them. They spun like flotsam, Gilleran flopping to the bottom as he became the heavier of the two. Nightfall stiffened for the impact, trying one last, urgent act. He imagined himself weightless as he released his death grip on Gilleran’s belt and snatched a tree branch from the air.

Gilleran crashed to the grass, limp. Nightfall closed his eyes as he continued to fall, his previous velocity unstoppable. The branch bent only slightly, bearing his meager weight. The jolting stop tore his right shoulder from the socket, and he felt something snap in his left hand. The branch held, but his grip did not. He fell again, his speed seeming impossibly slow in comparison, most of his momentum broken. He landed on Gilleran, then rolled to the ground, his last realization that the impact had not killed him. "Good-bye, Dyfrin," he managed to think before oblivion overtook him.