The Return of Nightfall (4 page)

Nightfall suddenly felt as if the entire room had shifted its focus to him. Pressed to say something, he spoke the words his role as Sudian the Faithful required, “Sire, you know I will remain loyally at your side whenever and wherever you go.” He hated the guise circumstance had forced him to take, despised the fool’s mission to which he might just have committed himself. He doubted expensive gifts and a long-winded speech would pacify the sly and selfish duke of Schiz. Varsah had seen a kingdom in his daughter’s future, and Nightfall doubted gemstones and pretty words would distract him. Worse, Nightfall suspected Edward might give in to Varsah’s demands in the name of fairness, locking himself into a loveless marriage to a graceless, homely woman and an insufferable father-in-law.

Nightfall expected the discussion to continue for hours. Surely Edward’s top councillors and advisers would not give up until they disabused their new king of this irrational and idiotic notion. Yet, to his surprise, once he pledged his support the others fell silent.

A soldier of gigantic proportions rose and bowed with a graceful flourish. “Your Majesty, if you insist on going, I will assemble my best men for your escort.”

Nightfall held his breath, concerned Edward might find some reason to refuse the offer.

Edward nodded at the massive warrior. “Thank you, General.” He threw up a hand in a grand display, as if responding to the cheers of a multitude. “Ready my gear and destrier! We leave on the morrow.” He sprang from his chair.

To a man, the others leaped to their feet, except for Nightfall who marveled at their awkward speed.

The king bashed through the door and onto the landing, followed by his guards and councillors.

Volkmier remained in place stationed, Nightfall noticed, between himself and the door. Suddenly wishing he had remained at Edward’s side, he studied his fingernails and pretended not to notice his only remaining companion.

Several moments passed in silence, then Volkmier cleared his throat.

Grudgingly, Nightfall swung his gaze toward the chief of prison guards.

“Sudian.” Volkmier spoke softly, but his tone held a hint of menace. “Please. Bring our king safely home.”

More confused than troubled by the words, Nightfall rose. Though nearly a full head shy of Volkmier’s height, he felt more comfortable in a fully defensible position. “Why tell this to me? The general’s men—”

Volkmier interrupted, “The guards will keep His Majesty safe from highwaymen and anyone who might wish him ill.” He pursed his lips. A comma of ginger hair slipped onto his forehead, well short of his eyes. He would never allow such a thing to spoil his deadly aim. “You, Sudian, might be the only man who can keep him safe from himself.”

The somberness of Volkmier’s expression precluded Nightfall finding any humor in the comment or resorting to a sarcastic response. The guardsman’s pale eyes held a glint of terrible warning. His words were more than dire request; they were also a threat.

Resorting to the bold and blind allegiance he had pledged to Edward on the day of their meeting, for the purpose of irritating King Rikard as much as winning the prince’s trust, Nightfall raised his head and spoke with feigned sincerity. “I’ll do my level best.”
And with the help of luck and gods and circumstance, I might even succeed.

Chapter 1

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

I
N THE WESTERN quarter of Schiz, Duke Varsah’s city, a fire danced in the hearth of the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern, casting scarlet and amber designs across the diners. Nightfall sat in the corner chair of a corner table beside King Edward Nargol of Alyndar. Guards ate and drank around the periphery, arrayed in Alyndar’s purple and silver. Commoners and travelers swarmed the nearby tables, keeping the help in constant motion. Nonetheless, a barmaid or serving boy remained always beside the royal table, prepared to wipe up any spill, to relay their least request.

Nightfall kept silent tabs on everyone in the tavern, an ingrained and wary instinct he could not have shaken if he wished to do so. His every movement was casual, masked as a thoughtful gesture, a fidget, a hair-rearranging head toss; but each shift in position granted him an unobtrusive means to observe every person and anticipate danger. He knew many of the patrons from his other guises; they were mostly Schizians mixed with visitors from the neighboring cities of Meclar and Noshtillan. They all drank, talked, and laughed; but Nightfall absorbed the strange underlying stiltedness, the not-quite-surreptitious looks his party earned amid the open stares of ruder folk, and the preponderance of those men most prone to curiosity and gossip.

When not cooking or cleaning, the pudgy proprietor Gil stood in the doorway between kitchen and common room, wringing his hands. He was not accustomed to royalty in his simply furnished red-stone building, constructed for meeting and drinking rather than hostelry. The upper class normally took lodgings in the south-end inn that Nightfall had gotten to know well in his persona of Balshaz the merchant. As the polio-stricken odd-jobber, Frihiat, however, he had grown familiar with the He-Ain’t-Here’s few rooms, now booked solid. Nightfall took some guilty pleasure in the usually unflappable proprietor’s discomfort.

In the best position for surveying the entire room, Nightfall noticed the two men approaching before any of the guards so much as rolled a glance in their direction. In his mid-twenties, the younger one sported an overlarge head topped with muddy curls, a crooked nose, and broad lips. The other appeared middle-aged, tall and thin with a mop of sandy hair and a scar running from the outer corner of his right eye to his chin. Nightfall recognized both. The first was Brandon Magebane, a gifted man with the most dangerous career Nightfall could imagine: hunting sorcerers. The second, Gatiwan, had accompanied Brandon on some of his forays, risking his life to rid the world of its greatest evil.

Quick as a cat, Nightfall rose and held out his hands in greeting. “Brandon. Gatiwan. Good to see you both again.”

Guards’ hands went to hilts, but the exuberant greeting of the king’s adviser kept them from standing or making any overt threat.

Brandon bowed appreciatively to the king, then addressed Nightfall. “Sudian. How wonderful to see you again. I presume you’ve come to fulfill your promise?” It was a ludicrous assumption. No king would travel halfway around the continent merely to escort a servant. As fast as the thought arose, Nightfall quashed it.
Edward would.

Edward turned a beetle-browed look on his adviser. To most of the world, Sudian had sprung from nowhere, the next in line to replace the thirty-six previous stewards who had abandoned the job of protecting and educating the brash young prince. For these men of Schiz to know Nightfall as Sudian, they had to have become acquainted in the months he had traveled with Edward; yet the king had never seen them.

In fact, Nightfall had met Gatiwan in a tavern while Edward slept, and the older man had referred him to Brandon Magebane. Nightfall had visited Brandon in secret, seeking one of the magical stones the Magebane created with his natal talent, which could thwart a sorcerer’s magic for a single spell. Brandon had given Nightfall the stone with the stipulation that, one day, Nightfall would assist the magehunters on one of their ventures. It was a rash promise made in desperation, one he had no intention of keeping, then or now.

Nightfall smiled. As one of the natally gifted, he appreciated what the Magebane and his rotation of volunteer followers did. But he had finally found a happy life, friends, a fiancée he loved, and had no interest in becoming part of a suicide mission. “Not today, Brandon. But thanks for the offer.”

Looking over, Nightfall found King Edward staring at him and knew what had to follow.

“Did you make this man a promise, Sudian?” In Edward’s tone, Nightfall heard the same damnable nobility that had caused the king’s late father to bind the boy to an assassin despised as an otherworld demon, named for the night-stalking creature of legend who terrified children’s dreams.

“Well, yes, Sire,” Nightfall admitted against his better judgment. “But just as a general ‘maybe someday’ type of—”

Edward would hear none of it. “If you promised . . .”

“Ned . . .” Nightfall warned, aware the king had no way of knowing to what dangers he was about to commit his adviser. By using the diminutive form of Edward’s name, he also hoped to remind the boy-king that his companion, at thirty-four, was nearly old enough to be his father: older, wiser, and far more experienced.

Edward ignored the unspoken advice. “A man of honor holds dear even the least of his vows.”

Nightfall crooked a brow. No words were necessary. Of all the men present, Edward alone knew his previous guise as the demon of legend, a vicious assassin who was anything but a man of honor.

King Edward’s blue eyes held that fiery gleam of a personal crusade, a look that brooked no compromise. For whatever reason, he believed his adviser’s actions reflected on him and on the esteem of Alyndar itself. Once those things came into play, nothing Nightfall had to say would accomplish more than angering his king.

Nightfall sighed, then turned his gaze back to a smiling Brandon Magebane. “Apparently, I’d love to help you. What would you like me to do?”

 

The healer’s one-room cabin smelled of myriad herbs, some as sweet and pungent as nutmeg, others as overwhelmingly bitter as onion. Nightfall glanced around the windowless space at the four dingy chinked-log walls and the thatch ceiling. An eight-year-old boy lay on piled straw, his small pale body enveloped in a patchwork of bandages. One circled his forehead, encasing his ears in salve-smeared, bloodstained cloth. A fringe of fine, page-cut sandy hair surrounded a heart-shaped face, and large brown eyes peered back at Nightfall. The room’s only piece of furniture, a small table, held a basin filled with medical supplies.

“Sudian,” Brandon said, “I’d like you to meet Byroth.”

The child continued to stare at Nightfall, managing a weak smile.

Nightfall nodded cordially, heart rate quickening. “What happened?” Though he intended the question for anyone, he continued to look at Byroth.

Apparently believing himself the target of Nightfall’s inquiry, Byroth responded, “I don’t remember.” Looking at Nightfall’s livery, he added, “Sire.”

Having become accustomed to the “sirs” and “my lords” of the castle regulars, Nightfall remained unrat tled by the excessive label of respect. “I’m just a servant, Byroth. No need for fancy titles.” It was not technically true. Since his promotion, the help refused to claim him; and he could no longer move invisibly through gentried circles. He did not know exactly where his advisory position fell on the social spectrum, but he was certainly no longer a servant. He did not, however, wish to explain his abrupt and rapid advancement to Brandon and Gatiwan. Away from royalty and its stuffy pretension, he preferred to remain just one of the boys.

Byroth nodded. “I keep trying to think what happened, but I can’t remember much. Someone grabbed me; I know that. Then, a lot of pain.” He stiffened, then grimaced at the discomfort that small movement caused him. “After that, my father hugging me, my mother screaming. Lots of blood.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

“Thank you.” Nightfall looked askance at the Magebane and his assistant. He despised sorcerers at least as much as anyone, had spent much of his life dodging them, and had nearly fallen victim to two. He particularly hated those who targeted children, though nearly all of them did. Simpler prey, the young were also more likely to accidentally or innocently reveal themselves as one of the natally gifted.

Brandon avoided Nightfall’s questioning gaze to address Byroth. “Would you mind if Sudian examined your wounds?”

Byroth gestured assent. “So long as you don’t . . . hurt me.”

Nightfall declined the invitation. “I don’t need to see them. Thank you.”

Brandon Magebane glanced from man to child and back, then waved toward the door. “Why don’t you try to sleep, Byroth. We’ll come back in a little while.”

Byroth’s expression turned stricken. “You won’t leave me alone, will you?”

“We’ll be right outside,” Gatiwan promised. “If we do leave, we’ll post a guard.”

With a nervous nod, Byroth closed his eyes as the men filed from the room.

As soon as the door clicked closed, Brandon rounded on Nightfall. “What do you think?”

Nightfall glanced around at the familiar city bathed in twilight. Narrow streets flowed between the wood and thatch cottages. His alter ego, Frihiat, had often limped out to earn drinks in the He-Ain’t-Here with stories, a quiet simple existence detached from the knife’s edge life of “the demon.” Crickets screed their high-pitched song while the people scurried about finishing their work before sunset. Seeing and feeling no one near enough to overhear them, Nightfall turned his attention to Brandon’s question, which held many possibilities. “What do I think about what?”

“The wounds.” Gatiwan took over impatiently. “Do you think a sorcerer could have inflicted them?”

Nightfall blinked, lacking some of the information and not completely certain of the intention behind his companions dragging him to visit a wounded child. “Does Byroth have a birth gift?”

“Not that he’s admitted,” Gatiwan said. “But we haven’t pushed that hard.”

“What do the wounds look like?”

Brandon’s scrutiny grew more intense. “You just passed up the chance to see them.”

Though an expert on wounds and their infliction, Nightfall shrugged. “You didn’t give me a reason to.” Not wishing to disturb the boy any more now than then, he added, “What does the healer think they are?”

“Stab wounds.” Brandon also searched the dimly-lit streets. “Simple stab wounds, she thinks, from a regular old knife.”