Mickey Zucker Reichert Read online

  Nightfall lowered and raised his head in a gracious nod. Mahogany hair spilled around his face, hiding his features. He had combed it across his forehead and straight to the sides, in a manner more suited to a young page, yet he managed to wear the style without appearing silly.

  King Rikard set his jaw, eyes narrowing, cursing himself for his lapse. There was a strategy to dealing with strong men, whether allies or enemies, and displaying astonishment did not bode well for maintaining an upper hand. "What are you doing out?" he hissed.

  "I’m sorry, Sire." Nightfall’s tone did not match his words, the title spoken more from forbearance than respect. "And I’m sorry to disrupt your dinner. I just wanted to let you know I’m ready to leave whenever you wish." He added carefully, "And I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of my charge." The dark eyes made a quick scan of the head table. He smiled briefly during the search, just about the time his gaze fell on Gilleran.

  Rikard remained steadily focused on Nightfall, locking his features into the blandest expression possible, though the precaution seemed ill-timed. He had already lost the advantage by allowing Nightfall’s abrupt appearance to so obviously startle him. In his present state of mind, he would have preferred to send Edward out immediately, even despite the banquet; but to do so would not only violate etiquette, it would further tip the balance of mastery into Nightfall’s favor. That idea irked him more than any of Edward’s antics. "What about your injuries?"

  "I’ve suffered worse, Sire."

  King Rikard did not doubt the words, but Chancellor Gilleran had brought the news that Nightfall requested more healing time only an hour previously.

  "If wounds alone could hinder me, my flesh would have poisoned vultures long ago." Nightfall added, "Sire." At least Gilleran’s lessons in procedure had not been fully wasted.

  King Rikard considered the death euphemism only momentarily, In Nightfall’s case, it seemed apt. He had more concerning events to ponder: Nightfall choosing to remain imprisoned in a room he apparently could have escaped at any time, his sudden decision to leave so soon after his insistence on delay, the unassuming mannerisms that had not yet raised the concerns of the guards against a servant tarrying overlong at the king’s side. Trying to keep me off guard with unpredictability. It seemed plausible. Chaos could unbalance any man. For the hundredth time, King Rikard worried about his arrangement, though not for long. Nothing remained to consider. Once Gilleran had cast the oath-bond, the time for choices had ended and only the fulfillment of the magic’s constraints remained.

  Nightfall did not move, head lowered, a curtain of hair hiding his face and making him seem more harmless child than demon.

  The benign image unnerved the king more than the hostile glances they had exchanged in the dungeon. He cleared his throat, delaying to keep anything but command from entering his tone. "Very well, then. If you go straight back to your room and stay there, I’ll send an escort for you in the morning." Finally, he spotted the means to regain the edge in their unofficial spar for dominance. He raised the glass of wine Nightfall had just poured and took a long sip. Though a simple action, it displayed his disdain for Nightfall’s dangerousness, reminding him that the oath—bond left him unable to poison Rikard or any of his entourage.

  Nightfall raised his head, a flicker in his eyes all that revealed acknowledgment of the king’s bold gesture. Without another word, he headed toward the exit.

  Nightfall awakened early the following morning, preparing himself for travel with an ease that seemed a mockery of his previous routine. He searched the room for loose fixtures. King Rikard had promised to fully out-fit him with traveling gear and weapons, but old habits would not die. His pockets, he knew, held several hand-kerchiefs and the sapphire ring he had stolen from Raven’s captain. He knelt, examining the only chair. It stood steady, its legs composed of neatly rounded and sanded bars. Four support dowels spanned the distance between them. Aware the chair would still balance missing two or three of the inner rods, Nightfall pulled them apart and secreted one in his pocket. Rising, he took the smaller mirror and the brush as well.

  Satisfied, Nightfall crouched on the pallet to await the escort who would introduce him to Ned. He wondered how the prince would look and act, but he did not dwell on the thought or waste time forming a mental image. Soon enough, he would meet his master. Preconceived notions served no purpose. His thoughts could not change Ned’s appearance or attitudes; they could only mislead him.

  Again, Nightfall let his mind wander to Dyfrin and his last lecture before business had led them in opposite directions: “Marak, you’ve got to make yourself another friend sometime. It’s not that hard, and it’s worth the trouble. First, treat everyone—lord, lady, idiot, or slave-—as an equal. Power and knowledge live in unexpected places. Second, never lend your coppers, but give them freely. Few things make friendship faster than kindness and nothing destroys it quicker than obligations. And lastly, never give a man reason to doubt your loyalty."

  I followed your advice, Dyfrin. I found a friend, and look where it got me. Nightfall lowered his head, mind suddenly filled with Kelryn’s visage. His hands balled to fists, and the vision disappeared beneath a red veil of rage. Befriending her cost me my freedom, my dignity, decades of perfecting identities, nearly my life, and possibly my soul. Trusting in no one had spared Nightfall the pain that his mother had inflicted through his childhood, the mixed messages of love and brutality, the compliments that, in the same breath, twisted into belittling insults and shouted obscenities. Loyalty unreturned is only service. Money unreturned is simply stolen. And I’ll treat a man as an equal the day he outwits me. Anyone who can’t is nothing more than a victim waiting to be parted from his riches. A smile touched his lips, every bit as cruel as Chancellor Gilleran’s. Whatever else I accomplish in my jive months of freedom, I will make Kelryn regret her betrayal. She won’t cross me or anyone else again.

  A knock on the door dispelled Nightfall’s train of thought. A man’s voice wafted from the hallway beyond. "Sudian?" He did not wait for confirmation. "I’ve been told to take you to Prince Edward."

  Nightfall sprang from the pallet and crossed the room, taking one last glimpse of the stranger in the mirror as he passed. He straightened his breeks, readjusted his tabard, and opened the door.

  A middle-aged steward confronted him. The man’s dark eyes rolled downward as he glanced over his charge, then returned to Nightfall’s face. His chin tilted upward, his disdain tangible; he was obviously unimpressed with what he saw.

  In the last twenty years, Nightfall had had little experience with this sort of treatment in the guise of Nightfall, his reputation and appearance inspired terror at worst and, more often, grudging respect.

  "Come with me." The steward turned, gesturing to Nightfall to follow.

  Nightfall trailed the steward in silence, making a game of noting the myriad openings the man left for his own murder. Having exhausted imagining the objects in his own pockets as the weapons, Nightfall quietly identified the steward’s belongings through creases and bulges in his clothing. When the steward paused beneath an ornate chandelier, the support for which spanned the wall near Nightfall’s hand, the oath-bonded squire found suppressing his laughter all but impossible. And, by the time they exited into the courtyard, Nightfall had relieved his guide of two pocket knives, a pouch of silver, a under-box, his wedding band, and a candle molded in the shape of a frog. Nightfall was just considering removing the man’s vest without his knowledge when the doors swung open and the activity in the king’s courtyard seized his attention.

  The oath-bond seemed to shudder, aching within him. Men in servants’ livery scurried between three horses, heaping packs and objects onto a rangy dark chestnut and a sturdy bay mare. The third horse, a white gelding, carried only one bundle behind its jeweled saddle. It pawed the ground repeatedly, tossing its head in sudden bursts that sent the groom clutching its halter into a staggering dance.

  Nightfall disliked the pale riding horse a
t once. Like many animals chosen for beauty, it had few manners, and its beacon coloring and grandeur would preclude evasive actions and draw the eye of every highwayman. Might just as well paint "I’m wealthy; please rob me" across its side. Another thought surfaced. That’d actually be safer. Most bandits can’t read.

  Several paces from the activity, King Rikard stood amid a half-dozen nobles. Beside him, Chancellor Gilleran watched the bustle with his arms folded across his chest, his face its usual empty mask. One broad-shouldered youth wore a mail hauberk and leather leggings beneath a meticulously pressed purple surcoat and a silver cape. A broad sword graced his belt. A helmet dangled from one gloved hand. Golden hair covered his head, sheening white, every lock neatly combed and tended. Round, pink cheeks betrayed him as a teenager, yet his thick frame bore no trace of adolescent gawkiness. Still, trained to notice subtleties, Nightfall recognized a mild tremor of excitement and an uncertainty to the youngster’s motions that would smooth with age and experience. Only the straight line of a healing scar across the prince’s face marred the picture. The other three nobles were strangers to Nightfall.

  King Rikard glanced in Nightfall’s direction. A welcoming smile flashed across his features and disappeared before he turned to the youth in mail and said something Nightfall could not hear. King and prince looked toward him together. Breaking from the group, they headed in his direction. Rikard’s face held an expression of discomfort and warning.

  Idly, Nightfall wondered whether the king anticipated trouble from Edward or himself and dismissed the thought as unimportant. Magic seemed to tingle and churn within him, as real as the shouted commands and scattered conversations around him. In the king’s presence, Nightfall had no choice but to endear himself to Prince Edward.

  As the noblemen approached, Nightfall dropped to one knee and lowered his head. Later, he could search for loopholes in the oath—bond. For now, it seemed safest to s obey it to the letter, if only to convince the king.

  King Rikard drew Edward to a halt before Nightfall. “Rise," the king said.

  Nightfall obeyed, glancing into the prince’s eyes and finding them as clear and blue as a crystal lake. Righteous innocence fairly radiated from him.

  Accustomed to winning stare—downs in seconds, Nightfall lowered his gaze respectfully before the prince could look away.

  "Ned," Rikard’s voice boomed. "This is your squire, Sudian."

  The crowd of servants and nobles lapsed into whispers. Acute of hearing and accustomed to the garbled syllables of varying dialects, the ill, and the aged, Nightfall managed to sift comments from the all but inaudible hubbub: "Who is he?" "Where’d he come from?" "Of course, he’s a stranger." "No one who knows Ned would squire to him, no matter how desperate . . ."

  Nightfall dismissed the throng, remaining silent so that Prince Edward could speak first. He considered his next move, basing it on descriptions of Ned, the courtiers’ reactions, and his own brief but thorough appraisal of the man before him.

  "Sudian." Edward studied his squire disinterestedly, obviously too accustomed to his stewards resigning to bother becoming attached to a servant. His gaze strayed back to the horses.

  King Rikard relaxed, apparently pleased with the natural ease of the union.

  But Nightfall saw a potential he could not resist exploiting. This prince is like a newborn puppy. If I can gain his trust, I’ve got a tool any con man would envy. He fell to one knee again with a crisp abruptness that seized the prince`s notice, as well as that of every other man in the courtyard. "Master, it will be the greatest honor of gods and men to serve you."

  Every eye locked on Nightfall.

  “Since I turned twelve, Master, I’ve had the same dream over and over." He rose, gaze distant, arm making a grandiose sweep that implied divine interference. "In the dream, the almighty Father tells me to seek a golden prince of great beauty and moral insight, and to serve him without fail to the depths of my soul and the end of my life.”

  Quiet descended over the courtyard, interrupted only by the prancing gelding. The king looked startled.

  "Master, I will see that your every need is met and that no harm comes to you. It would gladden me to throw myself before your dangers, to take your pain onto myself, even to trade my death for yours. Master, the gods themselves have sanctioned me as your squire. I will not disappoint them or you."

  Nightfall locked a sincere expression on his face, glancing up to see the results of his fabrication. The king scowled in warning. His squinted eyes made it clear that he thought Nightfall was mocking the situation. The stunned crowd remained still and hushed, awaiting the prince’s reaction.

  As Nightfall expected, Prince Edward delighted in the excessive performance and the compliments. He became stiffly earnest. "Sudian, your presence at my side will be welcome. Should your loyalty prove as fierce as your desire to give it, you will be handsomely rewarded." He raised a gloved hand.

  Nightfall suppressed the urge to dodge the coming blow.

  The prince clapped a firm hand to his squire’s shoulder with a force that ached through his healing bruises. Then, turning grandly, he headed toward the horses. "Pittan! Fetch Sudian the weapons and armor of his choice."

  Caught gawking, the liveried servants scurried back to work.

  King Rikard’s eyes had darkened to black. He cast a surreptitious glance in all directions before addressing Nightfall softly. "Very clever. Just don’t forget the terms of the oath."

  "How could I, Sire?" Nightfall turned to confront an approaching servant, apparently Pittan. In fact, the conditions seemed to bum in his mind, presumably due to the nature of sorcery. He felt sure the magic would hold him to the intention as well as the letter of the agreement. At the time of casting, he had focused on the obedience aspects of the king’s decrees. Only later, as the provisions became a settled constant in his thoughts, did he realize that the more important condition was his vow not to allow harm to come to Ned. I’m bound to dive between the idiot and death, even if it means dying myself. A true death is preferable to the hell threatened by violating the oath-bond.

  Pittan bowed to the king before addressing Nightfall. He explained, though everyone had heard Edward’s command. "Prince Ned asked me to find out what weapons and armor-"

  Nightfall cut him off. "No armor. I’ll take a sword. Something sharp, but not too bulky. And as many well-balanced knives as you can spare."

  Pittan gave Nightfall an odd look but did not question. He rushed toward the castle.

  The discussion of weapons reminded Nightfall where he might find the finest daggers in Alyndar. A split second glance at King Rikard confirmed that the king carried three knives on his belt. Taking a natural half-step closer, Nightfall relieved ,Rikard of the blades, pleased to discover they were the ones he, as Marak, had carried on Raven. Unable to resist the challenge, he acquired a few extra items from the king’s person.

  As a grizzled servant lashed a spade to the top of the chestnut’s packs, Prince Edward clambered into the white charger’s saddle. "Sudian, mount up. That one’s yours." He pointed at the heavily laden bay mare that Nightfall had taken for a packhorse.

  Nightfall took a step toward the horses, arrested by the king’s hand on his arm.

  “Here,” the king whispered. "You might as well have these." His hand fell to his sword belt. "They’re unadorned, so no one could recognize . . ." He trailed off, his hand patting his hip. He stared at the place where the knives had hung.

  "I have them, Sire," Nightfall admitted, keeping the smirk of amusement from his face.

  Rikard growled.

  Not wishing to further enrage the king, Nightfall reached into his pocket and returned a misstamped gold coin, a writ from a Briggian merchant, and the king’s signet ring.

  King Rikard’s face shifted through an array of reds to settle on a purple nearly as royal as Nightfall’s tabard. "It’s not too late to execute you," he hissed.

  "Sudian!" Prince Edward called. He gestured to the bay with
a jabbing flourish.

  Nightfall smiled. "With all respect, Your Majesty. I think it just might be." He trotted toward the bay. Accustomed to fast mountings on bare—backed horses, he lowered his weight and leapt into the saddle without bothering to use a stirrup. He took the reins into callused fists.

  Shortly, Pittan approached with the sword and half a dozen daggers.

  Nightfall thought he heard the king swear.

  Prince Edward Nargol perched upon his snow-white gelding, his head high, blond hair flying in the breeze of its movements. His beauty and regal bearing made him look like a living sculpture; only patches and rivulets of sweat mined the image. “. . . a chance to see the world! A chance to experience the lives of a thousand strangers. A chance to teach them . . ."

  Riding at his side through evergreen forest, Nightfall let "The Legend of Nightfall" run endlessly through his mind, the familiar tedium of the nursery rhyme distracting him from Edward’s idealistic ramblings. As the day wore on, the white gelding had become docile with fatigue. Overburdened, Nightfall’s bay and the packhorse had begun to stumble, each misstep jarring pain through his healing wounds and further darkening his temper.

  The stretches of sky visible between the trees dulled to pewter and lengthened as the forest became more sparse and clearings more plentiful. Hunger descended on Nightfall, tearing at his guts. Sleep, he thought. Sleep would feel almost as good as food. He became suddenly, intensely aware of Prince Edward’s stare upon him.

  ". . . do you think, Sudian?" The prince shook back his sweat-tangled locks, his silks now damp and spotted with dirt and pine needles.

  Having heard only the last four words, Nightfall answered the only question he could. "Yes, Master, I do."