The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 2

Prince Edward Nargol wove through the garden pathways of Alyndar’s courtyard, too preoccupied to notice the buds of the first spring flowers poking through the dirt or the ever-present steward who chased him, huffing in his wake. Slavery. The evil inspired by the thought sent a shiver through him. His chest clenched in sympathy for the men and women forced to toil for moldy scraps unfit for hounds, driven to work beneath the broiling summer sun or shivering as frigid winds cut beneath their ragged clothing. Owned like animals. Beaten and cowed like wild asses broken to plow. No one deserves that. The last plot disappeared behind Edward’s ground-eating stride. He kept to the trail, headed for the main gate and its hovering, attentive retinue of guardsmen.

"My lord, wait. Please." The steward pleaded, his voice a wheeze.

Edward paused, giving the steward sufficient time to draw to his side. "Elfrit, it’s not necessary to follow me everywhere I go."

The slighter man stopped half a pace behind his prince. Sweat trickled from his gray-flecked, brown hair. "It’s my job, lord."

"Not for long, if you kill yourself doing it." Edward smiled. Elfrit had endured as prince’s steward for four months, longer than any other attendant since Edward had turned thirteen. "Here, I’ll give you the day free."

Elfrit adjusted his tabard, his breathing falling to a less painful-sounding pant. "And I thank you for your generosity. But, with all respect due, lord, I work for your father, not you.”

The prince laughed. "I hardly think my father would object to my giving my own steward some time to himself."

Elfrit’s cheek twitched as he suppressed an exclamation that Edward would never hear. He avoided the prince’s stare, hunched and concentrating on each slowing gasp.

Impatiently, Prince Edward smoothed his red satin shirt and tugged his patterned breeks into a more comfortable position. "Well?”

Elfrit straightened, his breaths normalizing. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his brow, leaving spirals of hair plastered to his forehead. "Where are we going, lord?"

Resigned to Elfrit’s presence, Edward resumed his walk. "Out to do the king’s bidding?

“And that is, lord‘?" Elfrit broke into a trot so as not to fall behind again.

The gate loomed closer. The six guardsmen before it snapped to attention as the prince approached. On the wall above, the other two sentries crossed their halberds.

“To do something constructive outside his court, of course." Edward waved the guardsmen to an “at ease" position, "Open the gate."

Elfrit groaned almost inaudibly.

The nearest sentries seized the iron portals, pulling them open. A third crossed his wrists in a gesture of respect. "Prince Ned, we will escort you." He inclined his head toward the guardsman directly across from him who imitated the deferential motion.

"That won’t be necessary? Edward stepped past them and through the gates before the panels came fully open, Elfrit bundling after him.

Despite Edward’s instructions to the contrary, the pair of guardsmen trailed him through the opening.

The prince strutted across winter-barren ground studded with the earliest blades of grass. Ahead, sparse evergreens interrupted a farmer’s field, its irregular surface not yet plowed, its dirt boulders softening in the thaw. Just beyond sight of Alyndar’s castle, Edward knew he would find the Hartrinian camp.

Abruptly, he whirled on the guardsmen. "I told you, your presence is unnecessary.”

The sentries exchanged meaningful looks as their companions closed the gates behind them. "We insist, lord," the first one said.

"And I insist otherwise." Prince Edward had tired of the interference. In the past six months, the guards had trailed him like puppies. "Thank you for your concern, but I’d rather be alone." He glanced at Elfrit. "Or as alone as my too-loyal steward allows."

The guards hesitated, trading uncomfortable glances.

Prince Edward turned, continuing in the direction he had been walking. This time, the guards remained in place. Edward could hear their whispers, garbled to nonsense, until even the buzz of their conversation became lost beneath the hiss of wind-whipped needles.

Elfrit jogged along beside his prince. "Lord, don’t you think it might be wise to tell your father where we’re going?"

Prince Edward did not skip a pace. He entered a small cluster of pines that he knew sheltered the Hartrinians’ meadow camp. "Are you questioning me, Elfrit?"

That being clearly evident, Elfrit dodged the issue. “I’m only concerned for you, lord."

"Well, stop it." Edward threaded between the trees. "I’m quite capable of taking care of myself."

Elfrit muttered something unintelligible.

"What did you say?" Edward brushed through a brace of evergreens, the sight of the Hartrinian camp fully capturing his attention. Horses grazed piled hay, surrounding an array of tents. Smoke curled from the center of the camp, the fire obscured by the encircling canvas. A gaunt man in tattered homespun groomed a mare. A leather collar looped around the man’s neck, abraded skin showing scarlet above and below the band. As the horses’ questing noses flung hay to the ground, two other slaves raked it back into neat stacks. Otherwise, the prince saw no people.

Elfrit did not answer, nor did Edward notice his steward’s sudden silence. He stepped from the trees and approached the slave.

The man turned, clinging uncertainly to his brush and the horse’s mane.

"You’re free now," Edward said. He reached for the collar.

The slave shied away.

Grief welled in Prince Edward’s heart as he sensed the man’s terror. Surely, no one had ever made a kind movement toward the slave. "I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to set you free." Gently, he reached for the man, I catching a trembling shoulder. Tears stung the prince’s eyes. Carefully, he unclipped the collar. The leather fell away, revealing scaled skin, grime, and callus.

“Lord," Elfrit warned softly. "I don’t think…"

Edward ignored his steward. "You’re free now. A free citizen of Alyndar."

The slave stood, utterly confused. Edward stepped past, gesturing the other two toward him. "Come. I’ll free you, too."

They approached hesitantly, tossing nervous glances at the tents with each stride.

Suddenly, a heavyset, darkly-bearded man ducked beneath a hanging flap of canvas and emerged from a tent. He wore Hartrin’s eagle on blue and red. A sword swung at his hip, and a whip coiled in his fist. "Hey!" He galloped toward the prince. "Who are you?” He glanced at the collarless slave. "And what the hell are you doing?"

Elfrit shrank into the foliage. Edward turned to face the stranger, his shoulders squared and his head proudly aloft. "I’m letting these people live the life the gods intended."

The slaves huddled, still. The Hartrinian stared. "What are you rambling about?"

“The Father never meant men to be used like animals. Freedom isn’t a privilege. It’s every man’s right."

The Hartrinian whirled toward the gawking slaves. “You! Get back to work." Fast as a snake, he snapped the whip, the lash catching the two nearest across the back. One dropped to his knees with a cry of pain.

Outrage flared through Prince Edward. Springing forward, he hammered a fist into the slave master’s cheek. The blow landed squarely. Bone snapped beneath Edward’s knuckles, and the force sent the Hartrinian staggering backward.

Brush rattled as Elfrit ran back toward the castle. Edward caught the downed slave’s arm to help him rise.

"You stupid bastard!" The slave master surged toward Edward. The whip thrashed forward.

No one had ever attacked Prince Edward before, except in spar. Caught completely off-guard, he dodged too slowly. The scourge slashed his face, opening a stinging gash across his lips and cheek. Before he could speak, the whip whistled toward him again.

Knocking the slave from the path of the thong, Edward threw up an arm in defense. The whip stung, coiling around his sleeve. Seizing it near the base, Edward tore the handle from the slaver’s hand. His mouth ached, and he tasted blood, but the rage boiling inside him came wholly in defense of freedom.

Voices sounded from the direction of the tents. Four swordsmen in red and blue dashed toward them.

Now holding the whip, Prince Edward turned on the slave master. "Gods! Have you no decency? Don’t you know what you’re inflicting‘?" He swung at the Hartrinian, hoping to give him a mild taste of his own cruelty.

But the slave master lurched for Edward as he talked. The wooden handle caught the Hartrinian a clouting blow across the ear. His eyes snapped closed. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, limp, to the ground.

The slaves skittered away. Shocked, Edward dropped the whip, wanting to assist the man he had not meant to knock unconscious. But the rushing Hartrinian guardsmen forced him to tend to his own defense. He crouched, fumbling for his only weapon, the utility dagger in his pocket.

Before he could draw it, the two Alyndarian sentries burst from between the trees. "Halt!" one shouted at the Hartrinians.

Two stopped, crouching in defense. The others slowed, glaring at Prince Edward. The guardsmen on both sides hovered, a single sword stroke from an act of war.

The slave master lay still. Blood darkened one ear, his head awkwardly twisted.

To have arrived so swiftly, the guardsmen must have followed Edward against his orders, yet that seemed the least of his concerns. No one moved, and the silence grew heavy with tension.

"Men, at ease," Edward commanded his soldiers.

The Alyndarian guardsmen fell back, but they did not lower their swords nor drop their guard. With the situation partially defused, one of the Hartrinians sheathed his blade. He crept toward the slave master, his movements deliberately without threat, knelt at the man’s side, and felt for a pulse. Shortly, his lips creased into a frown. "He’s dead." He rose to a crouch.

Dead. Guilt ground through Prince Edward, and tears turned the scene to a damp blur. He had never seen sudden, violent death before. Though trained for war, he had no experience with combat and valued life, any life, too much to take one without just cause. He never expected his first glimpse of killing to be an accident by his own hands. I killed a man. I can’t believe I killed a man. He stared at the fist that had held the whip as if it belonged to someone else. "I’m sorry," he said sincerely. "I’m really sorry."

"Sorry?" The Hartrinian guardsman’s face purpled. “Sorry? You murdered him in cold blood. By our law, we could execute you here and now."

The Alyndarians bulled their way between the Hartrinians and their prince. One spoke, "This is Alyndar. King Rikard determines the law here." His tone dropped to a snarl. “Besides, the man you so blithely condemn is Prince Edward Nargol. And I think the king may have something to say about the wound your man cast across his son’s face."

The Hartrinian lapsed into silence. But another shouted, his anger not so easily quelled by thoughts of consequence. "There’ll be blood price to pay!”

The other Alyndarian soldier replied sharply. "And perhaps there will be. That’s for King Rikard to decide.” He held a dignified, nonaggressive pose, but his tone made it clear he would fight to protect his prince, right or wrong. "The prince’s steward ran to fetch His Majesty and your ambassador. Until then, there’s nothing any of us can do except wait." He let his sword sag slightly, watching until the Hartrinian did likewise before letting his blade drop to a less defensible position.

In increments, the other guards followed suit.

Prince Edward remained, letting the tears course down his cheeks, salt burning his wound. In his heart, he knew his cause was right, though a man lay dead. King Rikard was a just man who would see justice done, even if he did get too preoccupied with court matters to remember to champion the poor. That’s my job. And so long as my soul is pure and my causes noble, the gods will see them done. Edward bowed his head in remorseful prayer and waited for his father to arrive.

Nightfall awoke, sprawled prone on a floor that reeked of stale urine. A mildewed dampness chilled his chest and abdomen, dulling the pain of each sleep-deepened breath. He did not move, ignoring the grimy curtain of hair that covered and tickled his face and the aches that pounded through every part of his body. With effort, he kept his breaths heavy, sluggish, and methodical, not wanting to alert anyone who might be watching that he had awakened.

Carefully, Nightfall explored his surroundings, using other senses than sight. The odor of excrement and sweat convinced him he was back in the king’s dungeon, and the pervading coldness completed the image. He heard slight, low movements to his left, the metallic chitter of tightly-linked chains accompanied by the swish of fabric. Guards. Nightfall counted breaths. Two of them. Crouched or sitting sentries. Detecting no other movement, he knew that he must have been placed in a different cell. He was no longer in the main body of the dungeon amidst its other convicts.

The sentries seemed to pose no immediate threat, so Nightfall turned his attention to himself. The sharpest pain still radiated from the cracked ribs that stabbed his lungs. Nothing else seemed broken; but he ached in all parts, not just those that had struck the ground when he fell. Clearly, someone had battered him while he lay unconscious. Despite his predicament, the irony did not escape him. Afraid to face me awake, so they pounded me while I was senseless. Not a great way to get information, but it’s safe.

One of the sentries spoke. "I still can’t believe Rylinat and Dinnell are dead.”’

His companion made an ugly noise. Mail clinked as he moved, apparently rising. Something wooden scraped the floor.

The butt of a weapon, Nightfall guessed. He focused on every motion of the second guard, still feigning sleep.

Accepting the wordless noise as a response, the first guard spoke again. "What do you think the king’ll do with the murdering bastard?" A sleeve whisked as he gestured, presumably in Nightfall’s direction.

"If he’s got any justice, he’ll hack the demon into pieces and feed them to the dogs." Metal clanged against rusted steel.

Nightfall tried but failed to identify the sound. Inwardly, he tensed, seized with a sudden, intense sensation of being studied.

The scrape of wood against the bars was his only warning. Nightfall opened his eyes in time to see a spear butt racing toward his face. He dodged backward. His body protested the abrupt movement, sparking pain. The spear pole struck him a glancing blow across the shoulder. Lurching forward, he seized the wood and jerked.

Caught by surprise, with his momentum still forward, the guard scrambled to reverse direction.

"Holy Father!" The other sentry leapt to his feet. The spear rattled through the bars, the guard surrendering it an instant before the sharpened tip would have torn through his palms.

Now, Nightfall got a good look at his prison. Three of the walls were solid granite, the fourth a barred door opening onto the hallway where the guards stood. Though single, its lock appeared every bit as complicated as the ones on his previous cell. Torches lined the walkway, guttering in a wisp of frigid breeze.

Nightfall crouched, brandishing the spear. The guards skittered to either side of the cell’s door, safe from a direct thrust of the weapon. The first speaker, a tall, slender youth, stared at Nightfall through dark eyes contrasting starkly with a blanched face and the taut line of his lips. The spearman, a meaty blond with a homely face, motioned to his companion. "Get Volkmier. He should be on his way."

The youth looked uncertainly from his companion to Nightfall.

Nightfall went statue-still. For now, he had no intention of using the spear; killing guards gained him nothing until he found a way to open the lock. In the distance, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching at a leisurely pace.

"Go!" the older guard insisted more loudly. "Get Volkmier!"

The voice of the red-haired chief prison guard wafted from the hallway. "I’m here, and I’m with His Majesty. What’s the problem?"

"Nightfall’s armed," the youth called back. "He’s got a spear.”

Volkmier swore violently, the tirade transforming to an abashed apology in mid-word. He ran up the hallway alone. His footsteps stopped briefly, and Nightfall heard the click of a drawing crossbow. Then Volkmier stepped into view.

Nightfall recognized the commander as the one who had threatened him from the parapets. Now, as then, the guard aimed his crossbow at Nightfall. Gaze locked on the prisoner, Volkmier crept around the younger sentry to stand directly before the cell door.

Though it seemed foolhardy, Volkmier’s position was obviously carefully chosen. It gave him as clear a shot at Nightfall as Nightfall had at him. To attack, Nightfall would need to lunge, leaving the commander more than enough time to trigger his bolt. Even if Nightfall had had room to gather momentum to throw the spear, it would move slower and more awkwardly than the arrow.

"They say you’re quick, Nightfall." Volkmier stood steady as a cliff, his feet braced and the crossbow well-aimed. "Let’s see if you can drop that spear faster than I can shoot you.”

Nightfall plunged to his haunches, releasing the spear. The metal head sparked against stone, then the pole thunked to the ground.

The head of Volkmier’s arrow followed Nightfall’s movement, but the guard did not fire. “Very good. Now, gently, kick the spear to the bars."

Nightfall scrutinized Volkmier’s every motion. The guard seemed quick and confident, not at all the type to bluff. To resist now was folly. Even if he managed to slay Volkmier, he would still be trapped in Alyndar’s dungeon, unlikely to live more than a few moments longer than his victim. He prodded the pole with one bare toe. Holding his hands away from his body, he indicated helpless surrender, using the edge of his foot to flick the spear to the edge of the bars.

Volkmier made an all but imperceptible movement with his head in the younger guard’s direction. "Take it from him."

The youth scuttled forward, nervously raking at the spear through the bars.

Still menaced by Volkmier’s crossbow, Nightfall resisted numerous opportunities to regain his weapon.

The sentry worked the spear from the cell, then moved well beyond reach. All three guards relaxed noticeably, though Volkmier’s weapon remained steadily trained on Nightfall’s chest. "His Majesty and Chancellor Gilleran wish to talk with Nightfall in private. You and I are going to patrol the hallways and see to it they’re not disturbed.” He addressed the sentries, though his attention never strayed from Nightfall. "As to you, Nightfall, if you do anything to threaten King Rikard, I’ll see that you die in the worst agony I can devise. Then, I’ll find you in hell and do it again. Do you understand‘?"

"I understand," Nightfall said, his voice controlled to a maddening calm. Volkmier lowered the crossbow, and motioned the sentries off in opposite directions. "We’ll talk later. I want to know how in hell he got that spear. And you’d better have a good answer."

The elder guard cringed as the two sentries rushed to obey their chief’s command.

Volkmier scrutinized the lock and bars for tampering. Satisfied, he followed the younger sentry in the direction from which he had originally come. Beyond Nightfall’s sight, a brief exchange followed. "Majesty, I can stay with you while you talk.”

A rumbling tenor replied. “Thank you, Volkmier, no. Chancellor Gilleran and I can handle this ourselves."

A brief pause indicated hesitation, though the words that followed were spoken with brisk efficiency. “Yes, Sire. If we can be of service, you need only shout."

"Thank you, Volkmier," King Rikard repeated. A heavy pair of boots trod the corridor toward Nightfall’s cell, accompanied by one who walked with a swifter, lighter step. Volkmier’s clanking movements faded down the corridor.

Nightfall flattened his spine to the back of the cell, crouching beyond reach of the king and his minister. He dropped his mass to take the pressure from his aching legs, lungs, and abdomen. He had only glimpsed Alyndar’s king from a distance. Rumor claimed the chancellor was a sorcerer, and Nightfall thought it best to keep his distance. Death in a normal fashion might send him to hell. But soul-bound to a sorcerer, he would live on in eternal torment, his life-force chained to the sorcerer’s will, his innate talent ripped from him and used again and again. Careful research had made him fairly certain that sorcerers found their victims by bribe, coercion, and eavesdropping or by studying the populace for the one in a thousand with a natal ability. The sorcerers did not seem to have any supernatural sense that allowed them to identify the gifted ones without information or demonstration.

As King Rikard Nargol and Chancellor Gilleran came into view, a thought froze Nightfall’s blood in his veins. Kelryn knows about my weight shifting. If she sold my identity, why not my talent as well?

"So this is the notorious Nightfall." Rikard stared at the hunched figure, smashed to the back of his cell.

Nightfall returned the king’s gaze, assessing both men. Though gray in hair and beard, Rikard had retained his densely-muscled frame, and his dark eyes sparkled with vigor and evident wit. Beside the imposing frame and striking coloring of his king, Chancellor Gilleran looked small and nondescript. Only his eyes disrupted the image: pale, squinting, and cold as death.

A long silence followed the pronouncement while Nightfall regained enough composure to speak with his usual boldness. "Sire, my name is Marak." After all that had happened, it seemed ludicrous to try to stay with his original lie, yet he had few alternatives. "I’m a sailor, not a criminal. Your men made a mistake."

The king glanced at his adviser, who shook his head, frowning.

Cued by the king’s attention to Gilleran at a time when it made more sense to watch his prisoner, Nightfall studied the exchange.

Rikard turned to the convict again. "You deny being Nightfall?"

“I would be a fool to do otherwise." Nightfall combed dried blood from his beard with his fingers.

Again, the king looked at Gilleran.

The chancellor scowled. "Certainly, Sire, he speaks the truth." He opened his mouth, revealing straight rows of ivory teeth. "But that doesn’t change the fact that he is Nightfall."

That explains why the king keeps consulting him. Some sort of truth detection, Nightfall presumed. No doubt, a skill wrenched from some innocent. He imagined a child writhing in the terror of a prolonged, sorcerous death, its soul shackled into a limitless agony of service.

"Who are you?" King Rikard directed another question at his prisoner.

Nightfall said nothing. Even if the query had had an answer, he would have chosen to sit in silence. If say nothing, the sorcerer can’t tell if I’m lying.

"Who are you?" Rikard repeated.

Another lengthy pause, the hush interrupted only by the rhythm of their breaths and the mottled shadows created by the flickering torches.

The king loosened a sigh of resignation. His manner became direct, and his tone matched the change. "Look, Nightfall… Marak… whatever your name is. You have nothing to gain by silence. Even if we drop the other charges, you killed two of my guards. For that, I have the right to execute you without trial and in any manner I wish. I’m not stupid. I won’t let you out of that cell until you’re dead. If you insist on ignoring my questions, I’ll call Volkmier and order him to fill you with arrows through the bars." He glared at Nightfall, tolerance clearly waning. “It’s not as bloody as he’d like, but I think he’d enjoy doing it slowly."

Trapped, Nightfall lowered himself to the floor. "And if I do talk? You’ll free me?"

This time, the king did not bother to consult his chancellor. “Actually, that’s a possibility.”

Nightfall kept his hopes in check. To believe such a thing was absurd, futile at best. "Forgive my doubts, Sire, but you did just remind me that I killed your guards. What possible reason could you have for letting me go?"

"Personal reasons." King Rikard’s brow furrowed and his features darkened, as if he considered some distant annoyance. "But first, I need some information from you. Specifically, the truth."

Nightfall looked away.

"You have nothing to lose by honesty. And nothing to gain by lying. Now, who are you?"

Nightfall considered. Silence or lies would seal his fate. He dared not believe the truth might buy him freedom; but, at least, it might buy him time. "Call me Marak. Call me Nightfall. What does it matter?"

King Rikard continued to press. “But who are you? Who are you really?"

The question was nonsense. "I’m Nightfall. I’m Marak. I’m a dozen others as. well.”

Gilleran examined Nightfall with the intensity of a peasant choosing the plumpest chicken in a market square. No emotion escaped his set jaw and rock-steady gaze.

The king ignored his adviser, clinging to the question. "What does your mother call you?"

"My mother is dead.”

Rikard narrowed in. "What did she call you before she died?"

An image filled Nightfall’s mind, blurred by time. He pictured the frail, slender form of his mother, her dark hair combed to a sheen, a red dress hugging curves sharpened by hunger. To him, she looked beautiful, yet her pinched features warned him of coming violence. He shrank from the image. "She called me ‘Boy’ mostly, Sometimes ‘Rat’ or ‘Stupid.’ "

King Rikard glanced sharply, at Gilleran, who shrugged. "Your mother called you those things?"

Bitterness tainted Nightfall’s words. "Some of us don’t grow up on hugs and kisses and silk."

The king seemed to ponder the words far too long before returning to his original inquiry. "But, surely, she gave you a name."

Nightfall searched his memory. Twenty-six years had passed since his mother`s death and thirty, at least, since she had used his name. "I believe it was Sudian, Sire. Though I haven’t heard it since I was a toddler."

"Then it should work just fine," King Rikard announced cryptically. He pulled at his beard, looking thoughtful. "Sudian what?"

Nightfall stared. The question made no sense to him."Huh?"

The king copied Nightfall’s defensive tone. "Well, forgive my growing up on hugs and kisses and a family name. But isn’t it customary in most countries to give a man a second name based on his parentage? Sudian some man’s son‘?"

Nightfall drew his knees to his chest, centralizing his balance. "Sudian Nomansson."

"No man’s son? Are you protecting your father? There’s no need. It’s not his fault his son is a murderer?”

"I have no father? Nightfall stated it definitively, hoping to end the conversation, yet with little doubt it would continue. About Nightfall’s history, the king’s curiosity seemed relentless.

As expected, Rikard pressed. "Every man has a father."

"Not me," Nightfall said shamelessly, catching and holding the king’s dark gaze. “My mother was a prostitute. Any man could be my father." The memories surfaced, the years robbing them of emotion. He recalled lurking in the shadows of the street, huddled against the cold, his thin, unpatched homespun of little comfort against the wind. He remembered trailing his mother and her latest client to the bare, dusty room scarcely warmer than the alleyways, watching them writhe and moan between threadbare sheets. By two years of age, he had learned to disappear before the session ended to avoid his mother’s teary-eyed rages against her lot and the child who, she insisted, cost her dearly in food, money, and time, though she gave him none of those. By the time he was three, he had learned to search her clients’ pockets for crumbs and spare change, inherently knowing that to take too much might turn their wrath against her.

"A prostitute," the king repeated. "Hardly no man’s son. I should think that would make you every man’s son."

The cavalier observation raised a wave of malice. Instantly, Nightfall’s thoughts were flung backward to the winter of his eighth year. Then, he had returned home from seeking food to find a stranger battering his mother while he ravished her. Nightfall had witnessed the final blow to the throat that turned her breaths to terminal gasps. A quarter of a century later, he still pictured the man with a vivid detail that could not be erased from memory. That pig and ones like him will never be my father. "No man came forward to claim me as his, and I am no man’s son."

The king and his chancellor waited, eyeing Nightfall expectantly.

Grimly, Nightfall completed the recollection, as his mind always did. His mother’s murderer had become Nightfall’s first victim, slaughtered by an enraged eight-year-old with a table knife and a lucky stab. The memory would remain for eternity: blood splashing, warm and chokingly thick with an odor like sea things dying on a beach; terror and fear robbing him of anger, yet leaving the dull triumph of revenge.

Oblivious to Nightfall’s crisis of memory, King Rikard finished. "Well. No man’s son, then. More importantly, are the charges against you true?"

Nightfall glanced at Chancellor Gilleran. The sorcerer stood with his arms folded and his legs crossed. A half-smile played about his lips. He nodded slightly, as if to feed the answer to the prisoner.

"Some of them," Nightfall admitted.

"You have killed?"

"From necessity." Nightfall kept his attention on Gilleran, awaiting a reaction. Necessity depended on definition.

Gilleran stared blankly. He did not challenge Nightfall’s claim.

"You’ve stolen in every country in the world?"

Nightfall nodded once, not liking the direction of the questioning, yet knowing the king already had enough proof and reason to execute him.

"So you would say you’re familiar with every land? Their ways, their laws, their geography? The ways to avoid or escape trouble?"

The sudden shift in King Rikard’s approach surprised Nightfall. He raised his brows, trying to read the king’s intentions, though he suspected he did not have enough information to do so successfully. What does he want to hear? What do I have that he wants? "Sire, I could map them in detail with a stick and a handful of dirt. But I won’t reveal my secret haunts or name those who have helped me. I’d rather die in agony."

The king pursed his lips, rocking in place. His hands dropped to his sword belt, and he hooked a thumb over the leather. "I have more questions, Sudian Nomansson. But, in the meantime, I have a proposition.”

Nightfall rose to a crouch, instinctively finding the more defensible posture preferable, even for wholly mental pursuits. He knew too much of street scams to fall prey to subterfuge, but trapped and slated for instant execution, he currently found himself in the worst position for bargaining.

King Rikard paced before Nightfall’s cell. "As you may know, I have a son."

"Prince Leyne Nargol," Nightfall supplied.

Rikard smiled, stopping in his tracks, but he did not bother to look at Nightfall. "My younger son. Edward. Ned, we call him. A good boy with the best intentions, but terribly inexperienced and naive." He resumed pacing. "Yesterday, Ned accidentally killed a man, a member of a diplomatic entourage. And that cost me too much."

It seemed odd to Nightfall that the king would disparage his son to a criminal. Yet he supposed any discussion with one soon to be executed made no difference.

King Rikard came to an abrupt halt, seizing the bars in both hands and staring directly at Nightfall. "I paid blood price and quieting fees, but the gold means nothing. The problem is Ned."

Nightfall remained crouched and ready as a cornered animal, yet the direction of the king’s needs confused him. He doubted Rikard wanted his son murdered, though the ways of royalty sometimes pitted reputation against propriety. He waited for the king’s narrative to clarify his needs.

"Ned has cost me esteem, potential allies, thirty-six personal stewards, and my patience. Evidently, too much hugs and kisses and silk." He amended. "More to the point, too much time spent with philosophers and idealists." Having passed nearly beyond Nightfall’s vision, the king spun about and resumed his walk in the opposite direction. "Luckily for Alyndar, Ned has no claim to the kingdom nor any of her lands. My mind is made up. I’m sending him away to get himself propertied and, hopefully, to learn a little reality at the same time."

"And free the kingdom of the consequences of his good intentions? Chancellor Gilleran traced the king’s route with his gaze, otherwise completely still.

Nightfall waited, still seeing no need for his services.

"Don’t misunderstand me. I love both my sons." Rikard turned at the far end of his course and headed back again. "If I send Ned out, I have little doubt he’ll get himself killed within one moon cycle. If he doesn’t fall prey to footpads or schemers, his own overbearing virtue will offend the wrong person." He halted directly in front of Nightfall.

Nightfall could see potential in the king’s words, but he found it impossible to translate theory to practicality. Apparently, he wants me to protect Ned from the world and himself. But no one could be stupid enough to trust his son’s life to me.

"I want you to become Ned’s squire."

Nightfall blinked. Otherwise, he made no sound or motion. This is too good and too easy to be true. Immediately, his mind boggled with possibilities. It would prove simple enough to rob and murder the young prince. Once free, Nightfall would never be caged again.

"There are conditions, of course."

"Of course." Nightfall waited, seeing no reason not to promise anything, except for Gilleran’s truth spell. Still, he might get away with any carefully worded vow.

The king back-stepped, gesturing at Chancellor Gilleran. "As you may know, my adviser is a sorcerer."

Nightfall hid his aversion.

“He has a spell with a strange name I can’t pronounce. I call it oath-binding. The way it’s worked in the past, you and I agree to terms and Gilleran seals it with his spell."

Nightfall clutched his knees, now bothered enough to consider refusing the king’s offer on principle. He hated magic and sorcerers, and not just their abominable methods of gaining skills. Despised and feared by nearly everyone, sorcerers seemed devious, cruel, and twisted by the nature of their abilities and the obtainment of them. Yet his other option was certain death.

The king continued, “Should either of us break a condition of the spell, his soul would die by sorcery. As I understand it, that means eternal torment for the spirit, which would become the property of the sorcerer." He glanced at Gilleran, and Nightfall thought he saw Rikard shiver.

Gilleran remained still, looking like a washed-out caricature of a man, though his eyes revealed strength and joyful cruelty.

Nightfall presumed all of the terms of the oath would be placed on him, leaving no opportunity for the king to break a promise nor die in magical agony. “And these conditions?” he asked, not at all certain he wanted to know.

King Rikard pulled a rolled parchment from the pocket of his robe. Opening it, he read. "First, you will serve Prince Ned with his long-term, best interests in mind at all times." The king looked up. "You will be obedient to Ned. You will address him always as ‘Master’ and, to others, use his full name and title."

Nightfall frowned.

"But, where Ned’s judgment fails, your obedience to his welfare must always take precedence over obedience to his words, no matter the personal consequences."

I’m not calling any man “Master." Nightfall found the suggestion distasteful. “In other words, I have to do what’s best for him, even if he whips me for it."

King Rikard gave a wry chuckle. "Whipping is the last thing you have to worry about from Ned. He may try your patience to the edge of eternity, he may command you to do things that have no basis in any reality that supports common sense. But he won’t physically abuse you. That I can promise."

Gilleran tapped the king’s arm in warning.

"But I won’t," Rikard amended quickly. "For the purposes of the oath-bond, it would be best if I made no vows." He looked back at the parchment. "Second, you must see to it that Ned gets landed by Yrtish’s Harvest Moon."

Five months. Nightfall knew survival. He had paid no attention to methods of obtaining land and had little experience with politics, but he thought it better not to reveal his ignorance. Apparently, the king felt confident of Nightfall’s abilities and with good reason. If anyone could keep Ned alive and landed, I could.

"Third, you cannot harm or willingly cause or allow to be harmed Ned, Leyne, myself, Gilleran, or any noble, servant, or guardian of Alyndar’s court. And fourth, Nightfall is declared executed. You take a new name, identity, and appearance, and cannot tell anyone who you used to be."

“That’s it?" Nightfall asked sarcastically.

"That’s it," the king acknowledged.

Nightfall immediately found the gap in the plan. “And, once I’ve finished serving your son, you execute me."

"If you fulfill the provisions of this oath, if Ned is landed by Harvest Moon, the oath-bond is automatically dissolved. You become a free man with no debts or obligations and a chance to start life fresh. Since all conditions of the agreement disappear once the oath is gone, I can’t force lasting demands on you. It’s in my best interests to keep you happy, to give Nightfall no reason to reemerge.

Do you agree to the terms?"

Nightfall considered. lf he refused, he would die. He found the thought of serving a guileless fool unpalatable; yet, at least, he would be a living servant. Possibly, he could find a way of escaping the terms of the oath-bond if he found himself unable to fulfill them. And I have to consider the possibility that the king is lying about the workings of the spell. That last thought haunted Nightfall, but magic was rare and every spell as different as the innate ability from which it sprang. Having no experience with this particular spell, he had no way of guessing its weaknesses. "May I ask some questions?"

"You may."

"When Ned becomes landed, I’m free of all parts of the oath-bond?"

“Correct."

“Am I also acquitted of all crimes?"

King Rikard hesitated. “Yes. At least in Alyndar, though that doesn’t give you freedom to commit more. So long as you take a new identity, I don’t think the other countries will try you either. They’ll take my word that Nightfall’s dead. And, in a manner of speaking, he will be. As I said, it’s in my best interest to keep you happy, to see that you have enough money and stature to prevent the need for murder or theft.”

That had an undeniable appeal. Survival had driven Nightfall to an unprecedented spree of crime. Status and wealth would mean he never had to sin again, and a new identity would end decades of running.

"What if one of us dies? Or the chancellor?"

King Rikard deferred the question to his sorcerer.

Gilleran cleared his throat. "Once cast, my life has no connection to the spell. My death or that of His Majesty, may the gods prevent it, will not affect the bond. Your death, of course, would dissolve it.” He barely moved his mouth as he talked, expressionless as a corpse, his eyes hollow and unrevealing. "Though it would gain you nothing."

Except a chance to die a normal death, instead of becoming a tormented soul bound to a sorcerer. Nightfall kept the thought to himself, though Gilleran answered it naturally.

"Don’t get any ideas about taking your own life the day before the deadline. Suicide violates any oath-bond. Your spirit would still belong to me."

The words chilled Nightfall, all the more effective for their deadpan delivery and timing that made it seem as if Gilleran had read his mind. "I need time to think."

"Very well," the king said. "I’ll give you time. You have until I count to twenty." He took a deep breath. "One. Two…"

Sighing, Nightfall let King Rikard’s words disappear into the rhythms of his thoughts. He had become too dedicated to survival to choose death over life, no matter how conditional.

"… Five. Six…"

Rising, Nightfall approached the bars. "What do I have to do?"