The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 3

A week after its casting, the oath-bond still tingled through Nightfall like blood flow returning to an awakening limb, the feeling a constant, nagging reminder of its presence. Alone in a room in Alyndar’s castle, he perched on a wooden chair, studying his distantly familiar face in the mirror. A series of scouring baths had removed the grime and dyes that had become a constant feature of so many of his personae. The ever-present beard was gone, his hair trimmed into a fashionably short style. The soft, thick locks glistened mahogany brown, wound through with reddish highlights, so different from Nightfall’s black curls, Marak’s dark tangles and Frihiat’s bleached curtain, a color Nightfall had not seen since his childhood. The olive skin tones were replaced by his natural, fair coloring. The missing scraggle of beard revealed a strong chin, and the unkempt froth of head and facial hair no longer hid his straight nose and ears. The painted scars that distinguished his various characters had washed away, leaving a face without Balshaz’s pocks, the slashes from Telwinar’s plowing accident, or Nightfall’s crisscross of ancient dagger wounds that made him look so frightening.

Even Nightfall’s body seemed different. He had never worn a country’s colors before, and the royal purple and silver of Alyndar’s tabard gave him a regal air that seemed horribly misplaced. Without padding and a wicked aura of confidence, he had lost Nightfall’s imposing build. Telwinar’s limp had disappeared, and playing polio-stricken Frihiat had required a hundred masterfully twisted performances. Though accustomed to a myriad of different appearances, Nightfall found the reality of Sudian Nomansson more striking and frightening than any alias. Without the scars, squints, affectations, and beard, he looked a decade younger than his thirty-four years and as frail as the mother who had borne him. Stunted by starvation in his youth, he stood a hand’s breadth shorter than most men and never seemed to eat enough to pack weight onto his narrow frame. Long, silent stalks, chases, and escapes had endowed him with quickness and agility, but his mass-shifting skill had obviated the need for bulk.

Only Nightfall’s eyes seemed familiar to him. Feigned drooping lids, roving irises, and shaven lashes had not changed their color nor the striking resemblance to his mother’s own. Crowded by sodden tangles of hair and a coiled, filthy beard, they had appeared more black. Now, the openness of his face and the pallor of his skin accentuated their deep blue, lending him a dashing innocence that inspired a chuckle of amusement. Even my old friend, Dyfrin, would never recognize me. Thoughts of the sandy-haired father-figure turned Nightfall’s laugh into a smile. He could not help but consider the advice Dyfrin would have given him now:

"Don’t think of it as doing the king a favor; he’s done you one. By removing your identity, he’s removed all your enemies. He’s given you a chance at a new life and a noble cause."

A noble cause, indeed. Using my knowledge and experience to keep a spoiled fool alive. Faking loyalty to a child pampered and admired for no better reason than his parentage and with no understanding of human nature or the real world. Nightfall sighed, the grin disappearing into a wash of bitterness. It bothered him to have a hand in gaining power for another noble ignorant of his followers needs, a leader who tended to politics and power while his peasants suffered from hunger, disease, and violence. And, to Nightfall, Prince Edward seemed the worst kind of ruler, a crusader who championed causes he did not and could never understand in ways that accomplished nothing but death and an earful of moralistic raving.

A week trapped in a castle room and daily sessions with Chancellor Gilleran, during which he learned general servant behavior, had left Nightfall anxious to leave Alyndar despite the persistent pain of fading bruises and broken ribs only partially healed. He kept his weight low to assist the healing process and resisted the urge to unlock the door and escape. The warning jangle of the oath-bond made him certain he would not get far. Although temporary freedom, such as a nightly study of the castle hallways, would gain him information about its layout and, perhaps, its rashly impulsive prince, it did not seem worth the risk. Hampered by mending wounds and ignorance, he dared not chance an encounter with Alyndar’s guardsmen now, in Sudian guise. Cooperation, or at least its appearance, might gain him freedom. Causing trouble or mining his disguise would seal his death.

Nightfall glanced away from the mirror, turning his attention to the now-familiar furnishings. A simple, wooden table supported the mirror. A stiff-bristled brush, a square hand mirror the size of his palm, and a bowl of water lay on the table’s flat surface. A straw pallet filled one corner of the room, draped with a blanket. Nightfall’s seat was the only other piece of furniture.

A key rattled in the door lock in a pattern Nightfall recognized: left, right, left, followed by a click as the tumblers fell into place. Gilleran. No one else had entered Nightfall’s room since they had moved him from the dungeon after a private “execution" attended only by the king and his chancellor. Nevertheless, he scrutinized every sound, identifying patterns. Once certain of the other’s identity, he rose, back-stepped, and lowered his center of gravity. The oath-bond would keep him from harming the sorcerer, but he still felt more comfortable in a fighting posture.

The door swung open. Gilleran slipped inside, then closed the panel behind him. He wore tailored silks in royal colors more vivid than Nightfall’s linens, and he carried a staff decorated from head to base with carven fists. His frigid stare went straight to Nightfall, and a slight smile stirred the corners of his lips. "Prepared for another lesson?"

Nightfall did not trust any of the customs Gilleran had taught; though, so far, they seemed logical. The sorcerer had every reason to sabotage his education. "What I’m prepared to do is leave. I’ve wasted a week of my five months already."

"Ah." Gilleran slumped onto the chair, glancing at his own innocuous features in the mirror. "Impatience has killed many men."

"So have I." Nightfall remained in position. "But some things can’t be avoided." He spoke with casual simplicity, but he doubted Gilleran missed the underlying threat.

Gilleran loosed a grunt that might pass for laughter. He spun the staff, letting it strike his opposite palm. "Avoided, maybe not. But detained…?" He grinned openly, not bothering to finish.

The comment only emphasized what Nightfall had already surmised, that Gilleran wished to delay the task as long as possible in order to increase the chance of failure. The urge seized him to methodically slice the grin from Gilleran’s face, but the first spark of such thought tightened the oath-bond like a vise. Air seemed to leave the room, and pressure crushed in on him from every side. He dropped the image before the sensation could intensify from discomfort to pain, and he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. The poke of healing ribs into his lung seemed accustomed and natural in the wake of the oath-bond’s warning.

Gilleran studied Nightfall’s silence, demanding no response before speaking again. “We can’t send you off injured. It’d be cruel. You’re still hurting." Suddenly, he swung the staff for Nightfall`s chest.

Nightfall caught the staff and ducked beneath the attack. He jerked the weapon from Gilleran’s hands, instinctively gathering momentum for a return strike. The oath-bond caught him low, spearing, red-hot, through his belly. He collapsed, dropping the staff. Wood thunked to the floor, rolling with a hollow clamor that seemed end-less. Pain stole all thought of violence, then both waned to angry memory, leaving him only the background tingling of magic and the ache of old injuries incited by sudden motion and the fall. Nightfall staggered to an awkward crouch.

Gilleran retrieved his staff, deliberately stomping on Nightfall’s hand as he moved. "I’d delight in staying to talk, but I mustn’t be late for Edward’s farewell banquet. Of course, I’ll have to let King Rikard know the prince’s squire won’t be fit for travel for another month." He turned his back on Nightfall deliberately, as if goading an attack.

Nightfall ignored the challenge, rising with caution meant to appear cowed. His fingers throbbed, but he did not acknowledge the pain. He would not give Gilleran the satisfaction.

Alyndar’s banquet hall buzzed with conversation. Seated at the head table, King Rikard hid annoyance behind an expressionless mask. It would not do to display discomfort to a roomful of Alyndarian nobles and foreign dignitaries and ambassadors; but he could not keep his gaze from shifting repeatedly to the empty seat at his right hand. The guest of honor, Prince Edward Nargol, was inexcusably late to his own farewell celebration.

Flowers from the courtyard gardens decorated the seven tables in a rainbow of colors. Servants had twined them into vivid chains broken, at intervals, by clusters floating on silver bowls. Though striking, their varied perfumes paled beneath the rich aroma of roasted pork, beef, and pheasant. Over the last hour, Rikard had watched his guests’ moods pass from eager to curious to restlessly hungry. Irritation would have to follow, one that would not bode well for his future dealings with these people, whatever those might be.

King Rikard glanced to his left. Prince Leyne met his father’s gaze, one raised brow indicating a silent question propriety would not allow him to voice aloud. Rikard returned an equally subtle shrug. Edward’s delay would require a satisfactory explanation he knew, from experience, he was unlikely to get. Bothered by his current line of thought, Rikard concentrated on the competent routine of the `rest of his retinue. Guards ringed the periphery of the banquet hall, his personal half-dozen forming a rigid semicircle at a comfortable distance that left room for the serving staff. Servants scurried through the hall, tending pre-dinner needs and weathering the aggravation of nobles kept waiting inappropriately long. Though busy, they wasted no movements, their charges predetermined, their tasks shared without argument. He saw pattern to their every effort that defused some of the raw tension and reminded himself to discuss bonuses for every one with the chief organizer of kitchen help.

Across the hall, the double doors to the banquet hall slammed open. One panel clipped a passing serving boy, sprawling him. The goblet he carried rang against the boards, splashing a wild arc of wine across a tapestry. The guards nearest the door snapped to attention, glaives falling into position, hemming the entryway in case of danger. Caught off-guard, the guest-announcer skittered behind the guards, then craned his neck to identify the newcomer.

Rikard bit his lip and stifled his rage, knowing who had to stand behind any act of monumental embarrassment. He felt the reassuring pressure of a hand on his arm, and he appreciated his elder son’s perception and sympathy.

Younger Prince Edward Nargol stomped into the banquet hall, half-leading, half-dragging a middle-aged peasant in rags who seemed bewildered and more than a bit frightened. A troop of guards trailed him. Their varied constituency convinced Rikard they had joined him in singles and pairs over time, each trying to avert disaster in his own fashion. The king saw no sign of Edward’s steward. Either the long-legged prince had left Elfrit far behind or the attendant had quit like so many others.

The prince shoved through the crossed polearms, never losing his grip on the peasant’s sleeve. The sentries withdrew their weapons and stepped aside respectfully. "Prince Edward Nargol," the announcer called unnecessarily though Edward had already passed him. Rikard sighed and rose, considering the best way to alleviate the situation. Only his practiced composure rescued him from blinding fury.

All conversation ceased. Even the servants went still as Edward strode toward the head table, sweeping the ragged stranger through the aisles between tables. Rikard’s guards tightened toward their king, though surely their colleagues had already insured that no weapons would enter the banquet hall. Even Prince Edward’s authority and impetuousness could not have brooked this formality. Rikard waved his own sentries back. He would have preferred to speak with Edward alone, leaving the peasant with his guards, but the scene the younger prince might create if he tried did not seem worth the trouble. He trusted his instincts as a warrior, and those told him the stranger could cause him no harm even should he wish to attempt such a foolhardy and obviously suicidal action. Since no open food or dishes yet sat on the table, he did not need to fear poisoning either.

"Father," Edward called as he approached, strong voice booming over the hush.

Rikard kept his wince internal, waiting until the prince reached polite speaking distance before giving a soft but firm reply. "Edward, sit." He gestured to the chair to his right. A lecture and explanation would come only after the guests had food. He would not prolong their wait beyond the delay his errant son had already caused.

As usual, however, Edward would not let the matter drop. "Yes, Father, but not until a chair is brought for Dithrin." He back-slapped the shaggy peasant who looked greenish and shaky, as if he might vomit at any moment. Brown eyes dodged the king’s gaze and came to rest at his feet. The peasant bowed with an exuberance that nearly sent him crashing to the floor, and Edward’s sudden grip was all that saved him from collapse. "He’s an Alyndarian subject, and he’s hungry." Edward looked pained. "Father, there are hungry people under your rule."

Is this the first you realized that? Shocked by his son’s profound ignorance, Rikard turned his attention fully on Edward. More sheltered than even I thought. His arrangement with Nightfall pleased and pained him at once. Education and experience could only help Edward, yet he could not help feeling as if he were throwing a crippled lamb to the mercy of wolves. The stares of a hundred silent courtiers seemed to burn into his flesh, awaiting his next words; and the need to face such scrutiny made him certain. It changes him, or he dies. Either way, it improves the kingdom. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought. Hard as he tried, Rikard could not apply his usual ruthless justice to the situation. The features of the queen he had loved, so clear in Edward’s face, haunted him. Somehow, he felt as if she judged him from the holy Father’s paradise.

Dithrin’s demeanor relaxed slightly now that he no longer stood beneath the king’s scrutiny. Prince Edward seized on his father’s quiet. He glanced about, apparently for a servant. Finding none, he directed a guard instead. "Please fetch a chair. He can sit by my side."

"No," Rikard commanded.

The guard remained in place. A shiver racked Dithrin, and he trembled in anticipation.

Rikard continued, regaining command with an accustomed, quiet dignity. "Seat Dithrin at the seventh table." He pointed toward the gathering of non-titled folk, those of the lower class invited because of favors performed or distant ties of blood. "And feed him as any guest." He turned his attention to his younger son, temper trickling free of his control. Better to get the boy out of his sight than to risk a shouting match or loss of self-respect. "Ned, go to the tower chapel. We’ll talk." He jabbed a finger toward the exit, turning his back to make it clear he would hear no argument. He addressed a guard. “Tell the kitchen to start dinner. We’ll not wait for Prince Edward any longer."

The guard hurried off to relay his message to the proper servants. Dithrin scarcely waited for his escort, apparently eager to escape the thoughtful gazes and the presence of a king within his right to slay him for intruding. Prince Edward headed for the door, pausing only long enough to assure himself that Dithrin was properly tended to before disappearing into the hallway. As the guests returned to their own conversations, Rikard gave one last, whispered command. "See to it Ned makes it to the chapel and causes no trouble along the way."

The guards who had accompanied Edward rushed to a task Rikard did not envy. The king glanced at his chancellor, who sat at Leyne’s left hand. Gilleran shrugged, then shook his head with an indulgence reserved for teenagers. The wordless communication brought the first stirrings of calm, restoring the composure Rikard would need to bring the visitors comfortably through a banquet interrupted by a family fight and an absent guest of honor. As usual, he appreciated the sorcerer’s presence; few gentry had served him better or longer. Their association had spanned enough years that Gilleran seemed not only a competent adviser with a broad perspective, but one able to anticipate the decisions and needs of his king as well.

The arrival of food preempted any need for King Rikard to announce excuses for the prince’s behavior. Disgruntled impatience turned to contented exuberance as servants piled plates with steaming vegetables and meat.

Rikard had only just taken his first mouthful when a servant addressed him from the place Edward would have occupied. Though so low no one else could hear, the voice startled the king. Apparently, the servant had been standing there for quite some time, waiting for the king to acknowledge his presence.

"Wine, Sire?”

King Rikard nodded without bothering to look. He heard the light splash of liquid filling his glass. Then the sound ended, but he still felt the man beside him. He took another mouthful of turnips, chewed, and swallowed. The servant remained in place, his patience or sluggishness becoming an annoyance. Rikard surmised that the servant could not have paused as long as it seemed, or his guards would have interfered. He turned his attention to the wine-server, his shrewd, brown eyes meeting blue ones so dark they bordered on black. He had seen the face twice, but once so different he would never have credited it to the same man had he not had a hand in the transformation. Surprise tightened every muscle, his mouth fell open, and his eyes widened.

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 at 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."

Prince Edward accepted the response. "Very good.” He reined his horse, clambering from the saddle. As he landed, his knees buckled, and he crashed to the ground.

Obviously not used to riding for hours. His own knees aching, Nightfall sprang from his bay, turning a laugh into a cough. He ran to Edward’s side, reaching out a hand to help the prince to his feet. "Master!" Despite the humor of the situation, he managed to sound concerned. "Are you hurt?"

“No, no. I’m fine." Edward accepted Nightfall’s support, throwing his weight onto the smaller man as he rose. An abrupt increase in mass spared Nightfall a tumble, and he eased Prince Edward and twenty pounds of mail hauberk to his feet. "I just need to walk around a bit." He paced a careful circle, Nightfall hovering over his every step.

Prince Edward whirled. Finding himself nearly on top of Nightfall, he back-stepped. "Sudian! I said I’m fine." He winced, the abrupt movement apparently sparking pain through overtaxed muscles. "Unload the horses and see what you can make for supper. I’ll start on the camp."

Nightfall nodded, turning to obey, though he did not understand the division. If I unload the horses and cook, what does that leave as camp for him to start on? Though accustomed to action and pushing himself to the limit, Nightfall could feel his thighs and buttocks stiffening from the ride. Movement had worked the kinks from his knees. Though he still hurt from bruises and the familiar jab of healing ribs into his lung, he knew tomorrow morning would bring an aching agony of cramped muscles. Combat training or none, Ned is going to feel even worse. He stripped off the white horse’s bridle and unlaced its pack. Hefting the bundle, he staggered under its weight, managing a single step before the pack plummeted to the ground amid a muffled clamor of clothes and armor. Anticipating Edward’s rage at the manhandling of his personal effects, Nightfall glanced toward the prince who seemed too engrossed in freeing the spade from the top of the bay mare’s load to notice his squire’s mistake.

Step one, lighten the load. Nightfall dragged the bundle aside, pitying the horses. He’s packed for a plague-damned army.

Having obtained his spade, Edward set to work digging.

Nightfall continued pulling pack after monstrous pack from the backs of the chestnut and his own bay. Discovering several weeks’ worth of rations, he selected the items that would not keep for travel: fresh meat, corn, onions, squash, and peas. He also found bread and honey. Unable to resist, he smeared a slice with honey and took a bite, the sweetness enhanced by hunger. Pawing through the packs, he searched for a pot.

Edward set the spade aside, his ditch forming a shallow arc around the horses. He wiped his brow with the back of his fist. "How’s supper coming?"

Caught with his mouth full, Nightfall chewed and swallowed hastily. "Just getting started, Master."

“Are you eating already‘?"

Prince Edward’s tone suggested surprise and displeasure. Still, Nightfall could not imagine that the prince wanted him to starve. "Yes.”

Edward clambered from the ditch. "Don’t you know it’s impolite to eat before a superior‘?"

No. In starvation situations, the rule made sense. But we’re carrying enough to feed every hungry family in Nemix and still have leftovers for the rats. Dedicated to his act, Nightfall covered. "Master, of course. I was just testing it for you."

"Testing it?" Edward selected an ax from the piled supplies. "What do you mean, testing it?" "Making sure the honey was good, the bread fresh enough for you. Taking the first bite in case your enemies poisoned it."

"Poisoned?" Edward looked aghast. "Poison? But I have no enemies?

Nightfall passed the piece of honey bread. "Those are the worst kinds of enemies. The ones you don’t know you have."

Prince Edward stared at the bread and its semicircular defect, crenellated with Nightfall’s teeth marks. “But my father’s own men packed this food. And it’s been on our person since then."

"The second worst kind of enemies are the ones who can poison your supplies without you knowing it."

Edward seemed to accept that. He took a bite, chewing with relish. "Best honey I’ve ever had."

Nightfall nodded agreement. He had never eaten better; but he suspected that, in Ned’s case, hunger had more to do with the superlative than quality. Nightfall heaped another bread slice with honey for himself.

Holding his food in one hand, Edward hefted the ax. "You keep working on unpacking and dinner. I’ll get started on the turf blocks and wooden stakes."

Turf blocks? Wooden stakes? Nightfall had no idea what Prince Edward was proposing. Still, he grasped his own instructions, so he did not need to question. As night came, enwrapping them in darkness, he sent the horses to graze, built a campfire, and prepared a stew. He followed Edward by the thunk of his ax into wood, the discomforting crack of a trunk’s last supports breaking, and the swish and slam of lower trees and branches snapping beneath its fall. Then Edward hacked and shaped each trunk, over time acquiring a neat pile of stakes.

Nightfall waited until the prince headed off to acquire another tree, swiping a handful of the fashioned timbers for firewood. The prince’s stamina after a full day’s ride surprised Nightfall. While the stew thickened, and the night darkened to pitch speckled with white stars, he sorted their gear into a tiny pile of necessities and useful items, a voluminous stack of extraneous niceties that had to go, and Edward’s personal items consisting mostly of battle armor and far too many clothes. Now equipped with daggers and sword, Nightfall ditched the chair dowel he had taken in Alyndar’s castle. He tossed the flammable items from the superfluous pile onto the fire. Then, he drew two logs near the flames to serve as seats.

Ned’s stack of sharpened poles grew.

Finally, running out of ways to amuse himself, Nightfall plucked wooden bowls and spoons from the useful pile, repacked the items according to his new system, and ladled stew into the dishes. “Master, supper’s ready."

Prince Edward wandered over and sat on a log. The firelight glittered from beads of perspiration on his forehead, and sweat trickled along his nose. Exertion flushed his cheeks. Branches had gouged rents in his silks where they poked from beneath the hauberk. Evergreen needles decorated his hair, and he smelled of pine tar and bark. He accepted the stew bowl eagerly. Rising, he rolled his log away from the fire’s heat.

Maintaining consistency, Nightfall took the first spoonful. Meat more tender than any he had ever tasted slid warmly into his pinched and rumbling gut. “It seems safe," he said with all seriousness.

Prince Edward started to say something, presumably to mention that poisons did not act that quickly. Then, apparently recalling that he had just argued against the possibility of sabotage at all and too hungry to worry about details, he ate.

For some time, dinner took precedence over conversation. Then, contentedly full, Nightfall pushed his first bowl aside while Prince Edward was still devouring his second helping. The squire stared at rows of lumber and the partially finished ditch, watching moonlight glimmer from the spade and the axe’s blade. Unable to contain curiosity any longer, he phrased the question as respectfully as he could manage. "Master, what are we going to do with the sticks?"

Prince Edward stared at his squire as if Nightfall had asked the stupidest question ever uttered. "Build the camp, of course."

Nightfall glanced from the logs around the roaring campfire to the horses contentedly grazing on leaves, brown vines and new, young grass shoots, to the neatly sorted packs. It was already the largest, most comfortable camp he had ever seen. "Forgive my ignorance, Master, but why do we need carved wood to build the camp?" The question of how long it would take seemed infinitely more important, but he saw no tactful way to ask it. Besides, the answer should become obvious once he understood the prince’s intentions. If Prince Edward planned another ride like yesterday, they would need more than half a night of rest.

Prince Edward politely swallowed his mouthful of stew before replying. "For the fences and the palisade."

Obviously, Nightfall’s surprise showed clearly, because Edward continued explaining.

"I learned how to build a strong, defensive camp from my lessons. I’ll teach you."

Nightfall suppressed a groan. I don’t believe this. Prince Silk Sheets is going to teach me how to sleep outside. Then realization struck him. His lessons. His history lessons. His "how to be a war general" lessons. By the Fathers crown, he’s building a pissing fortress! The image of a towering buttress filled his mind, along with the weeks of hard labor it would cost for two men to erect it. The picture threw him over the edge. No longer able to restrain his amusement, he broke into a raging torrent of laughter.

"What’s so funny?"

The somberness of the prince’s tone only tripled the humor. Nightfall howled.

“What’s so funny," Edward demanded, his voice breaking as he started to chuckle himself. Within seconds, they were both laughing hard enough to burst. Every few moments, Edward caught his breath to ask the source of the laughter again, and each time the question began a new wave of mirth.

Finally, they both sat, gasping, beneath the moonlight. A long time had passed since Nightfall had laughed except with cruel satisfaction in the wake of an enemy’s death. Despite the pain in his lungs and exhaustion, he felt good.

The pause gave Edward the time he needed to fully regain his composure. "Sudian, why are we laughing?"

At you, you ridiculous simpleton. We’re laughing at you. Nightfall passed up the straight line. "Master, we’re both overtired to giddiness. As much as it pains me to leave work undone, it might be best if we both got some sleep."

"Without defenses? And let something attack us in the night?"

Nightfall wondered what Prince Edward would think if he knew his squire was the most horrible and dangerous thing in the forest. "Master, what good are defenses if we’re too tired to fight?"

Edward’s eyes narrowed. All humor left him. “Sudian, are you questioning me?”

Nightfall stared, annoyed by the malice in his prince’s tone. "Master, are you asking me if I asked you a question?”

Now Edward seemed startled. "I’m pointing out that you’re questioning my judgment.”

"Is that a crime in Alyndar?"

"Yes.” Edward retrieved his bowl of stew. "Well, no, not a crime actually." He gripped the bowl, fingers white with frustration. "It’s considered rude. You’re a servant. You can’t just run around questioning nobles’ judgments? “

"Master, I don’t understand.” Nightfall adopted a wide-eyed innocent look. "My loyalty is to your welfare. If I see you making a decision I think might hurt you, I should say nothing?"

The prince chewed another mouthful of stew, swallowing before replying. "You have to trust that I see things you don’t."

"Master, I trust you. I trust you more than anyone." And if you believe that, you galley-clod, you’re even stupider and more naive than I thought.

Edward softened. "Very well, Sudian. I appreciate your loyalty. And you do look tired. Why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll take first watch."

"Master, thank you." Nightfall managed to turn his back before the smile overtook his face. Curling on his side in the clearing, he fell asleep almost instantly.

A movement awakened Nightfall. He opened his eyes to the darkness of wee morning and an exhausted Prince Edward headed in his direction. Beyond the campfire, the prince had gathered at pile of pine needles to serve as a bed.

"Ah, Sudian, you’re awake. It’s your turn to take watch. Can you handle it?"

Nightfall sat up quickly, giving an enthusiastic gesture of respect. "Master, I’m alert and ready for anything.”

"Very good." Prince Edward sprawled across his make-shift bed, turning his back to his squire.

In thirty-four years, nothing has ever approached with-out waking me from the soundest sleep. Nightfall lowered his head, curling back into a ball on the ground. You could have spared yourself the watch. I ’m more wary in my sleep than you are awake. He waited until Prince Edward’s gentle snores wafted across the camp, memorized the normalcy of its sound and the layout of the clearing, then swiftly returned to sleep.

Nightfall awakened to the numbing chill of sunrise. He sat up, curling a leg to his chest, and a soreness in his inner thighs and buttocks reminded him of yesterday’s ride. The pain brought a familiar satisfaction. In his years as Etan, the laborer, stiffness at sunrise always followed a day of noteworthy accomplishment. But, this morning it only means I’ve got a fool for a master; one who doesn’t know when to ride and when to rest.

Nightfall sighed, glancing around the camp. The fire had burned to piled charcoal splattered with a few red coals. Prince Edward lay on his back beneath a blanket, with one arm thrown across his forehead. Nightfall had often heard that people looked innocent in sleep, and he found it fascinating to think that Edward could appear more guileless than he did awake. If he became any purer, I’d have to diaper him.

Not quite ready to rise for the day, Nightfall stared between the trees. Early sunlight reddened the gaps between branches, filling the sky with waving patches of scarlet, green, and gray. He crouched, watching the colors change as the sun inched upward. The tatters of sky between needled branches diffused to pink.

Oddly, of all his personae, it was Nightfall, himself, who liked to watch the dawn. He recalled nights in his childhood, when his mother or her client had barred him from the room, and he had hidden from the world and its dangers between the wheat stalks of a farmer’s field. He would awaken to sunrise creeping over a billowing sea of gold, mesmerized by the rainbow parade that preceded the sun. Legends spoke of the seven sisters on horseback towing the burning chariot across the sky, chasing night’s demons over the world’s edge and back into their hell. The young Nightfall would pretend that the twilight beauty was the sisters’ gift to him; that, one day, they would carry him across the horizon to a land where bowls of food sprang from the ground, where summer stayed all year round, and where the same man slept in a woman’s bed every night. The sisters would all be his mothers, playfully arguing over which loved him more, though he loved them all the same.

The pinkness faded, intertwined with, then replaced by, a pale, blue-white expanse, back-lit by yellow. Standing, he chuckled faintly at the reverie. Back in the days when I was as unenlightened as my master. He glanced at Prince Edward, watching the youth twist in his sleep, tangling himself into the blankets. Shaking his head at the spectacle, Nightfall amended. No. I think I was born more worldly than he is now.

Trotting to the pile of wooden stakes, he collected a handful and tossed them on the coals. Smoke poured from beneath one of the logs, then trickled into oblivion. Leaving the coals to smolder against fresh wood, Nightfall prepared a breakfast of bread, cheese, and fruit, leaving it in place for Edward’s awakening. Then, quietly sating his hunger on a slice of bread and a handful of winter berries, he finished preparing the packs for travel.

The horses stood in a row, alternating head to tail, swatting flies on one another’s faces. Still disliking the beacon whiteness of Ned’s gelding, Nightfall considered driving it away. But that would mean piling its share of the load onto the other two, already overburdened, horses. He combed the tangles from his red-brown hair, then set to grooming the mounts.

By the time Prince Edward awakened, all trace of dawn had left the sky. The fire flickered, orange and gold, over logs no longer recognizable as stakes. Nightfall had washed and shaven, the latter action taking the place of the ritual disguising that had grown so familiar over the years. He appreciated the time saved, though his face felt cold and his identity nakedly vulnerable. Despite years of perfecting his agility and sense of touch, he had only shaved a few times and appreciated the hand mirror he had taken from the palace. For clothing, the king had granted him only tunics, tabards, and breeks in Alyndar’s colors, apparently to remind him of his duty to Edward. As if this ceaseless grind of magic would let me forget.

Edward disentangled himself from the blankets. "Good morning, Sudian.” He sat up, his silks twisted, his yellow hair hanging limply into his eyes, and a pine cone stuck into the locks above one ear.

Fighting laughter, Nightfall paused longer than decorum demanded. "Good morning, Master." He passed the brush and mirror. Surely, Edward carried toiletries of his own; as heavy as the prince’s pack had seemed, Nightfall wondered if he had dragged along an entire vanity table. Still, the squire knew his manners would lose to humor if the pine cone remained in place too long. "I’ve got breakfast ready. And the horses. When you’re ready to leave, I’ll tie up the gear."

"Very good." Prince Edward accepted the objects, flipping errant strands back into place. The pine cone tumbled from its perch. Its touch made the prince jerk away with a suddenness that changed his expression from pleased to pained.

Just noticed the riding soreness, Nightfall guessed. He moved to the fireside, stirring a green twig through the embers, watching the prince from the corner of his eyes for no better reason than amusement.

In obvious discomfort, Edward lurched to his feet. Yet, though he moved with a painful slowness, he still managed to change into a fresh set of linens, replace his hauberk, and cover it with a woolen cloak without a single moan or complaint. Then, he wandered off toward the stream to wash.

Nightfall folded the blanket, replacing it with Edward’s effects. He seized on the prince’s absence to examine his personal gear. Plates of armor sandwiched a collection of folded clothing and spare boots. A book lay protectively wrapped in a pair of linen britches. A sack held a matching brush and comb encrusted with tiny pearls, a vial of perfume, leather soap, and sword oil. A waterskin sloshed, smelling of an exotic wine unfamiliar to Nightfall. A tooled leather, drawstring purse held twenty or thirty silver coins, five years’ wages to a laborer.

Nightfall closed the pack, securing everything except the pouch of silver which he left for Edward to carry on his person. Again, he sat by the fire just as the prince returned, clean and wet from the stream, his own morning ritual completed.

Edward took a seat on the log by the fire, starting in on the breakfast Nightfall had arranged. He stopped with a bite of cheese halfway to his lips. "Did you want to test it first?"

"Master, I’ve done that already."

"Fine." Edward put the food in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Aren’t you going to eat?"

Thinking it wiser not to confess that he had already done so, Nightfall accepted an apple and munched slowly. The warmth of the fire made a pleasant contrast to the morning breeze. Fully risen, the sun beamed through layers of needles. Comfortably full of rich bread and fruit and reasonably well rested, Nightfall felt content. Perhaps the king did do me a favor. The thought raised a sudden, goading stab from the oath-bond. Now all I have to do is figure out a way to get this child some land. Aware Edward did not like being questioned, Nightfall turned his query into a statement. "I was wondering where we were headed."

Edward tore a chunk from his bread, kneading it between his fingers. "East," he said. "We’re headed East."

Since Alyndar occupied the western most tip of the Yortenese Peninsula, the direction seemed obvious. "Well, I was just wondering if we had a certain place in mind. A city? A barony‘?"

"No." Edward clutched his bread, his gaze becoming distant. “We’ll go where the winds take us, spreading goodness where we can, enlightening the ignorant to the Father’s greatness, to the dignity and worth of all men and women."

Nightfall rolled his eyes. What star are you from? "I thought our mission was to get you landed."

"That’s secondary.” Edward put the bread into his mouth.

To you, maybe. Nightfall was beginning to remember why the king’s oath-bond was anything but a favor. Ned, would it save you any trouble if I just went mad right now? “Master, forgive my ignorance. But l always thought a king’s son was given land."

Prince Edward swallowed. "My brother, Leyne, is the crown prince. He inherits everything.”

"That’s more land than any one man can handle. Can’t he share?"

"That’s not how it’s done."

"Oh." The ways of royalty made little sense. To have so much, yet still not enough for his brother. Nightfall understood that men’s greed and covetousness expanded to cover all that they had, apparently no matter whether it was a crumb or a kingdom.

"My mother always planned for me to become part of Leyne’s household as a scholar. But Father believes I should prove myself worthy by winning land of my own." Prince Edward rose, holding the bread slice in one hand and drawing his sword with the other.

Nightfall skittered out of the way.

Caught up in his own heroics, Edward no longer seemed to notice his squire. He raised the blade in a salute to the gods. "And I would have it no other way. The kingdom of Alyndar has many brilliant thinkers, Father’s wisdom, and Leyne’s talent with words and weapons. Somewhere…” He gestured with the sword to indicate the world. “. .. out there is a kingdom, a barony, perhaps only a village that needs a leader like me."

Nightfall crouched, heart still pounding from the prince’s sudden lunge with a drawn blade. You mean, I presume, a kingdom starved for buffoonery.

Prince Edward sat, returning his attention to his bread. "Sudian, prepare my destrier!”

"At once, master." As soon as I figure out what, in hell’s confines, is a destrier. Nightfall traced Edward’s gaze to the grazing horses. Ah.

Quickly Nightfall set to work saddling and bridling the white and the bay, then lashing Edward’s personal gear to the rump of his riding gelding. He tied the pack full of necessities to his own bay. Then he placed the remaining weighty trinkets onto the chestnut, binding them haphazardly in the hope that they would disappear during the ride. He tied the spade on the top of the chestnut’s gear. With all this equipment, we couldn’t outrun a pregnant turtle. Checking the spade’s binding one more time, he loosened it and turned back to the prince.

"Ready, Master," he said.

Unwilling to trust the whims of the wind, Nightfall unobtrusively steered Prince Edward toward Nemix, the first large city in the area and one in which he had a strong chain of contacts. The maneuver proved easier than he ever expected. Caught up in the scenery and his own grandiose ideals, Edward did not seem to notice when they detoured past the villages of Quant and Rankelle nor when the spade slid from the top of the chestnut’s stack and tumbled to the dirt. Quietly, Nightfall edged them from one set of trails to the other, traversing one of many familiar routes from Alyndar to Nemix. At this rate, we may get t0 Nernix before dusk.

At least, the bruises and stiffness from the previous day taught Edward something. He made frequent stops to eat and urinate, using each to work the kinks from his muscles or search the heavens for information about time and direction. At each stop, Nightfall unobtrusively jettisoned a few more objects from the unnecessary items packs, tossing them deep into the woods to keep from leaving a trail of gear and niceties for footpads to follow.

Late morning, a rustling in the tall brush by the roadside caught Nightfall’s eye. Weed tops bowed and danced, revealing something’s winding, awkward path. A muffled groan sifted through the grasses, nearly lost beneath the rattle of stalks and the clop of hooves on roadway. He reined back, then threaded behind Edward to interpose himself between prince and unidentified creature, hoping to manage a close but unobtrusive look. He wanted to determine the best course of action, ignore or intervene, before Edward discovered the presence and made the decision for them.

Before Nightfall could swing his bay fully around, the white gelding jarred to a sudden stop. Its head jerked to the stirring weeds, and its ears swiveled forward into nervous triangles.

Edward tapped the gelding with his heels. When that failed, he kicked with the angry impatience of one accustomed to having orders obeyed swiftly. The horse paid no heed to the drumming on its sides, attention still riveted.

"A moment, Master." No longer able to avoid the situation, Nightfall dismounted and approached the roadside. Delicately, alert for ambush, he parted the weeds.

A man rolled in the ditch, wrists and ankles trussed and his cloak pulled over his head. He wore leather breeks and a well-fitting tunic with fringe. The needlework at the collar suggested wealth, and the supple skin of his palms and fingers made it clear he did not toil or fight for a living. Nightfall took his cues from other details. White striped the base of each fourth finger; apparently, he had worn rings until recently. A tunic pocket hung, torn and turned inside out. Starting bruises mottled the skin of his arms.

"Oh, dear," Edward said.

Nightfall hauled the cloak free, revealing an angular face fringed with tangled, honey-colored hair and a neatly trimmed beard. A grimy wad of cloth filled the stranger’s mouth, and he stared at Nightfall with brown eyes that seemed relieved and angered at once. The man grunted.

Nightfall seized an edge of the gag, then hauled it from the stranger’s mouth. It unwound into a sodden ribbon.

The man spat the remainder free. "Robbed and attacked. Five men. They took everything.”

The gelding danced backward. Edward tugged at the reins to regain control. "When?"

The man sat, raising his arms for Nightfall to cut the bonds. “Moments ago. They rode that way." He inclined his head in the direction they had been traveling. "Over-heard one of the dirty bastards say they were headed for Nemix." He gazed up at Edward. Apparently noticing the royal garb for the first time, he added, "Noble sir. They took-"

Prince Edward did not wait to hear more. He jerked the gelding’s head about, then slapped the end of the reins across its rump. The horse surged forward, galloping in the direction the man had indicated.

Nightfall swore, dashing from the ditch to his horse in an instant. He ignored the shouts of the still-bound man behind him. Surely Edward wouldn’t attack five highwaymen alone. Nightfall flung himself into the saddle and urged the bay into a run as he settled in place. The horse lurched, delayed by the chestnut packhorse tied to its saddle. Then, both horses pitched forward, hooves chewing rents in the dirt. King Rikard’s descriptions of his impulsive son returned to haunt Nightfall. He would attack five highwaymen alone. The realization turned the oath-bond into a shrill scream of pain. Nightfall stiffened, natural dexterity all that kept him from tumbling from the horse. The need seized him to charge ahead, hacking at bandits like a wild thing, interposing himself between the prince and any blow he might need to fend. He wrestled for common sense. Imitating the prince’s noble but reckless stupidity would only see them both dead.

The rump of the white gelding bounced over the roadway. Topping a rise, it disappeared over the far side. Nightfall could hear Edward shouting challenges, his words indecipherable but his presence and beacon horse enough to catch the attention and spur the avarice of any thief.

Thought kicked in beneath the oath-bond’s urging. Guile, not brute force, would rescue Prince Edward from his own rash yearning for fairness. The knots and cloak-binding had seemed the work of professionals. If they had let their victim overhear plans to run for Nemix, then they had no intention of actually doing so. Which means they’re probably holed up here. Understanding accompanied idea. Impressions rerouted, he saw the territory in a different light. The perfect hiding place seemed to fill his vision, the forest on the rise. On the right side of the road, it fell away to a dry riverbed. The high ground would serve as a lookout perch, the low as a shelter from elements and prying eyes. Nightfall guessed they had chosen their robbery site deliberately.

The assessment flashed through Nightfall’s mind in an instant. He pulled up his horse, and it danced to a stop, plowing furrows through leaf mold and mud. Likely, the sentinel would have his attention focused on Prince Edward, and Nightfall’s antics farther down the path would go unnoticed. He would have to take a chance on that assumption. There was no time for more detailed strategy. Dismounting, he left the horses to graze and slipped into the right-hand forest area. Tied together, the horses would not stray.

Nightfall moved swiftly through the forest, nearly in silence, hoping Edward’s calls would cover whatever few sounds he made. He kept his weight low to minimize noise. Sticks bent rather than cracked beneath his step, and stems brushed effortlessly aside. Within a few paces, he found smashed weeds, mulched leaves, and fragmented limbs. Strands of mane hair dangled from a jagged edge of bark. Someone had cut through the denseness of the forest, and no regular traveler would have need to break trail here. Encouraged, Nightfall pushed on. Shortly, he heard voices, soft and indecipherable through foliage rattled by wind and activity. Nightfall sucked in a deep breath. The nagging stab of the oath-bond reminded him that he had no room for failure; he had tethered life and soul to a royal, but suicidal, clod.

Nightfall gauged his motions, increasing his weight and dropping his usual caution, trying to sound like a small group of men slipping past. He spoke in a loud whisper. "Think Hira’s being a bit too obvious what with that white horse, a pack that looks stuffed, and all that shouting?"

Nightfall altered his voice as much as the slight volume allowed. "Thieves got more greed than brains. Caught that group near Delfor with a soldier as loud as Hira." Nightfall referred to an incident in which a group of young amateurs was imprisoned. He doubted an organized setup was involved, but it seemed unlikely these men would know more details than the scant few he had at his disposal. "Quiet victims sometimes get missed, no matter how good a target."

Nightfall veered deeper into the forest. He could think of no better strategy for the thieves now than to lie low; but he rarely trusted others’ judgment. If they saw him alone, he knew of no easy way to save himself or Prince Edward. That line of thinking raised the stress of the oath-bond, sending its warning through him in crippling waves. His hand slid naturally to the throwing daggers, and memory bullied its way past magic. Since childhood, Nightfall and Dyfrin had played a game they called "dagger catch" in which they flung knives at one another in turn. Early on, they had used wooden blades and made certain to grab each other’s attention before striking. Later, they had hurled live steel with lethal aim. Luck and, later, skill had spared them any serious injuries. Nightfall had even learned not just to dodge, but to snatch the daggers from the air and return them instantly, a maneuver Dyfrin hatefully nicknamed "the razor rebound." Now, Nightfall knew, his ability might serve him well, but he dared not rely on it. Trees and Edward would foil his aim, and it seemed far more intelligent for the thieves to either avoid them completely or close in for a fight.

Nightfall continued his charade. "I presume there’s horses‘?" He answered his own nonspecific question in a different voice. "The ranks up ahead have them, in case the thieving bastards make a run for Nemix. But it doesn’t much matter. Soon’s they hit the bait, we’ve got them." He switched to a throaty bass, "Pretty embarrassing if they rob Hira clean and break away." Nightfall returned to the first voice. "At least we’ll get a look at them. And they won’t get nothing. The most valuable thing Hira’s got is the clothes on him."

Nightfall doubled back, taking the first steps slowly and quietly, then concentrating more on speed. He found the horses grazing the roadside ditch and clambered onto the bay. He kicked it into a lope, studying the forests with an exaggerated scrutiny. Likely, the highwaymen would not risk the trap Nightfall had detailed for a single purse. If he stayed calm and followed Edward at a cautious distance, they would take him for a member of the hunt.

The ruse brought Nightfall safely past the hidden thieves. He caught up with Edward by midday. Apparently, the prince had stopped his mount to wait for his squire. Sweat sheened the prince’s forehead, and foam bubbled along his horse’s coat. "Ah, there you are, Sudian! Afraid I’d lost you." Edward glanced up the pathway, apparently planning to continue the chase.

Though eager to reach Nemix, Nightfall believed it I wiser to cool his charge’s ire first. A calm, leisurely journey, with no hope of catching criminals or dealing justice, seemed just the trick. "I’m sorry, Master. My horse came up lame." He reined to a full stop, though Edward frowned in irritation. "I pulled a sharp stone from the left forehoof. It’s just a bruise, but it could turn into worse if we keep this pace."

Surely Edward had never cleaned a hoof in his life, yet he had, apparently, learned enough from books and tutors to understand the danger. A single unsound hoof rendered a horse useless. "Do we need to camp?" he asked with obvious reluctance.

"I don’t believe so, Master. I think she’ll do fine at a steady walk." And that still ought to get us to beer and shelter by sunset.

Prince Edward patted his gelding’s withers, drawing back a hand sticky with foam. "They could all use a rest, I suppose. We’ll never catch those thieves now. We’ll just have to ride back and ask the stranger to describe them so we can turn in their descriptions to the constabulary in Nemix."

Turn back? Shocked, Nightfall did not have an immediate reply. The idea of repeating the same trip endlessly became a nagging frustration. The oath-bond had settled back into its regular buzz, and Nightfall dreaded that it might flare again when they rode past the thieves a second time. "Master, I can save us the trip. The stranger told me he didn’t see his attackers. They pulled the cloak over his head too quickly." No such conversation had ensued, but Nightfall suspected he told the truth anyway. “Understandably, he was eager to be on his way. He’s probably halfway home by now."

Edward frowned, glancing back the way they had come. "Perhaps he could describe some item they took from him, something we could watch for."

Nightfall considered the best means to save travel time and to get the matter dropped. Edward’s heroic persistence had already become annoying. He could imagine the prince confronting and questioning every group of five he saw or spending months searching for a fictitious object. "Master, he told me they only took his purse. Three or four silver, he said." Nightfall invented an amount that would entice thieves but would not sound too significant to Edward. "Master, he said he wouldn’t miss the money. He was just shaken by the ambush. They didn`t hurt him."

Prince Edward’s lower lip curled as Nightfall’s "discoveries" strangled his options. “We can’t just let these beasts keep attacking honest people on the road."

Nightfall made no reply. Edward had a cause to champion, and he clung to it the way a dog worries the last meat from a bone. The longer the discussion, the more the problem would grind at the young prince. Left alone to think, surely even he would realize no course remained to follow. Yet when it came to logical thought, Edward seemed the exception. Nightfall had originally believed much of the king’s description of his son was exaggeration; now it seemed more like understatement. No doubt, Prince Edward would plunge them into trouble of a sort Nightfall was more accustomed to creating than solving. Worse, the best plans to rescue them from the situation might fail because Edward seemed inclined to dodge around his own protections and deliberately take on the danger again.

The prince sighed, reining his horse toward Nemix. For now, at least, he seemed to have dropped the affair.

Nightfall would see to it that state of mind became permanent.