The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 7

The familiar coarse wood construction of Delfor’s common room soothed Nightfall after the beggars’ antics in the streets. The inn had become a staple in the farming village even long before Telwinar’s arrival, and its rough-hewn beams, beer-stained tables, and blended aromas of alcohol, food, and honest perspiration seemed a haven after a hard day of labor. Edward sat amid a friendly ring of guardsmen, having bathed; and Nightfall felt secure leaving the prince in the hands of the overlord’s men while he tended the horses, then cleaned and stowed their gear. The accommodations were simple but clean, the food fresh from the tiny personal gardens each farmer kept to supplement his family’s income. The excess, such as it was, usually found its way here.

Nightfall had lingered over the basin and pitcher of water supplied by the innkeeper. Of his regular personae, only Balshaz the merchant concerned himself with cleanliness. Now, scrubbed skin and no need for paint, grease, and dyes made him feel strangely free despite his servitude. The gelding’s foamy spit washed easily from his short-cut, mahogany locks, a welcome change from Marak’s itchy tangle that had taken its color more from dirt and grime than dye. He gathered up their travel-dusty clothing for the washerwoman on the opposite side of town. He had some experience with laundering, but filth had become a familiar accessory to his masquerades and he knew nothing about the proper care of silk. He had left the tied bundle of clothing and one of Edward’s silver coins in the hands of a local boy whose integrity he trusted, with explicit instructions to give money and garments to the washerwoman. The boy was told to report directly to him if the woman gave him less than four coppers for his trouble.

His work finished, Nightfall finally joined Prince Edward in the common room, scarcely managing to wolf down winter-stored turnips, peas, and squash before two more of the overlord’s guards arrived. These bowed briefly, then one addressed the prince. "Prince Edward, the Healer can see your squire now."

Edward looked up from his food and company to reply. "Excellent, thank you." He glanced at Nightfall. "I’ll be here or in the room, Sudian."

Nightfall rose reluctantly, dinner only half-finished. They had eaten well enough on the trip, but the work had left him hungry and cooked vegetables seemed far superior to the hard tack they had consumed for the past week. He glanced at Prince Edward, assessing the situation fully before leaving the prince’s side. Delfor possessed nothing more dangerous than an occasional mean-spirited traveler in the worst of times. Poor farm villages rarely attracted thieves, even should Edward still have had money to steal. Nightfall believed the beggars would stay away. Though soft-hearted with the natives, the innkeeper brooked no nonsense from strangers, especially those who would not or could not pay for what they ate or harmed those who could. The rabble wanted Edward’s money, not his life; and they surely knew they would earn no goodwill from him or other nobility if they mobbed him again. For the moment, Edward had a protective retinue of village guardsmen as well.

The two Delforian guards escorted Nightfall from the common room and back into the main street, their hovering presence an uncomfortable reminder of his arrest in Alyndar. Mired in exhaustion, worry, and pain, he floundered for the knife-edged clarity of mind he relied on in the most menacing situations. The Healer seemed god-sent, appearing in the most unlikely place at a time when he needed the service. That stroke of luck concerned him far more than the presence of a pair of guards he could dispose of, if necessary, even one-handed. Anything convenient was a trap until proven coincidence.

As the three walked past shops and cottages, Nightfall sought information, keeping his queries and comments within the realm of normal curiosity. "The wound is deep. I appreciate your effort and generosity, but I doubt there’s much this Healer can do for me."

The guards exchanged knowing smiles that unnerved Nightfall. "Genevra’s good,” the one to his right said. "She’s fixed a lot of injuries people doubted she could help."

Nightfall studied the speaker’s wide, friendly features. A brown mustache hid his upper lip. Coloring and the set of his face identified him as a Delforian native, and his accent fit the region. "Obviously she’s someone important. I never saw a town so protective of a Healer, nor any Healer with such a following.” Nightfall made a broad gesture that included the sparse beggars but also indicated the incident from earlier in the day. The guilt that came from the reminder might make the guards more talkative.

“She’s a special Healer," the same man said. "Doesn’t use herbs or stitches or nothing.”

The other guard, also a native Delforian cut in, "She’s got some sort of magical power, but she ain’t like no sorcerer I ever heared tell of."

Just the pronouncement of "sorcerer" sent Nightfall’s throat spasming closed. His step faltered for an instant, but he otherwise gave no sign of his distress. He searched for solace and guidance, finding it in the realization that Genevra far more likely belonged among the one out of every thousand with a natal ability than the one out of five thousand with a bent toward sorcery. The realization did little to allay anxiety, however. Hunting and slaying sorcerers probably kept the numbers of natally empowered and sorcerers even, and he had never heard of one of the congenitally gifted sharing her skill so flagrantly. Still, it made just as little sense for a sorcerer to do so. They could gain their spells by ritualistically slaughtering other sorcerers as well as from the innocently gifted. Unless she’s so competent she’s trying to draw other sorcerers to her. That brought another idea to the fore, one that might help him differentiate natal from captured skill. Dyfrin had a theory that the gifted could operate their powers by thought alone, perhaps accompanied by a simple point or touch when those abilities required directing. Sorcerers, however, needed to torment their stolen and bonded souls to activate their powers, a process that required gestures and/or words.

Nightfall’s contemplations dropped him into a silence he knew he had to break to keep the conversation natural. “Magic? I don’t know as I believe in it, but it can’t hurt to let her try." For all his cheery confidence, Nightfall felt uncertain of his decision. The odds all seemed in his favor. If Genevra was a fraud, he lost nothing. If she turned out to have a congenital gift, she might have the competence to restore use to his hand, without which he had small chance for survival, if she were a sorcerer, she would still have to establish that he had a gift before she tried to take it from him. Unless she obtained some spell that allows her to recognize powers in others. The thought chilled him. The gifts took many and varied unpredictable forms, and he could not begin to guess the possibilities. If it existed, that particular gift, he felt certain, would become the coveted property of every sorcerer in existence.

The guards made wordless noises of agreement as they circled the fountain and approached the front of the central building. Nearby, the community hall seemed to have shrunk in the shadow of the Healer’s structure, though both were constructed from the same Delforian oak. Nightfall made a mental note to stop in the hall before taking leave of Delfor. Few of the farmers and citizens could read, but they did keep up a pictorial and color-coded board to let others know who needed assistance or had jobs for hire. Using it, Nightfall might see to it that Telwinar’s belongings, tools, and horses found their way to those most needy.

Catching himself falling naturally into Telwinar’s character, Nightfall shook the thought from his mind. It belonged in the head of the withdrawn and plodding farmer, not starry-eyed Sudian or the demon who haunted men’s nightmares in all corners of the continent. Instead, while the guards exchanged comments with four others standing alert before the Healer’s door, his mind drafted the one most significant question.

The guards returned momentarily, and Nightfall spoke quickly. Once they gestured him through the doors the time for chatter would end. "Does this Genevra have other magic besides healing?" He had never heard of anyone with more than one natal ability. Possessing two or more would affirm her as a sorcerer, though a single gift would tell him nothing. A sorcerer who had killed only once was still a sorcerer.

"Only the magic all pretty, young women have over men," the rightward guard said.

The other nodded agreement. "The magic of the nubile. This way, Squire." He gestured a path between the four sentries, who stepped aside to let the trio pass.

Though discomfited, Nightfall hid all signs from long practice. If she were a sorcerer, obvious anxiety would surely catch her attention.

The guards pulled open the thick panel. They ushered Nightfall through it and into an antechamber with a second door on the far side. "You’ll have to leave any weapons here." The outer door clanged shut, locked from the outside. “You’ll get them back."

The idea of disarming himself before a possible sorcerer rankled, and the injuries that hampered his usual agility only amplified his concern. Still, the precaution made sense. If not a sorcerer herself, the Healer had much to fear from a parade of armed strangers, any of whom could hide his bent for ritual murder and magic. Her skill seemed far more useful and precious than Nightfall’s own. Mimicking Edward’s guileless innocence, he handed over sword and belt and the remaining pair of his knives. He had left the six knives from Alyndar’s armory in his gear and lost the third throwing knife in the battle in Nemix. He kept the one of Grittmon’s jeweled blades he had recovered, hidden well enough that a standard search would not uncover it. The guards frisked him briefly; Nightfall guessed he underwent the abbreviated version as an emissary from Alyndar’s king. Apparently satisfied, one pulled out a key and unlocked the second door. He pushed it open.

The room beyond smelled faintly of incense. Mats and pillows lay scattered around the floor, enough to sleep six or seven comfortably. A hearth lined one wall, swept clean; and shelves on the other held knickknacks in human and animal shapes, perfume, and toiletries. A niche in the wall supported a bar from which hung several cloaks and dresses, plain but well-sewn. A young woman sat cross-legged on a green cushion with corner tassels. Straight, blonde hair fell to her waist, shimmering in the light of several torches in sconces along the walls. Her fair features held the blush of youth; and Nightfall estimated her age between seventeen and twenty-one years. By her coloring, he guessed she was born of southern folk, from Noshtillan, Sehiz, or Meclar. Once she spoke, her accent and the timbre of her speech would likely reveal her origin more specifically. A pair of guards stood nearby, their expressions grim and businesslike.

As Nightfall stepped into the room, his escort closed the door behind him, remaining inside to reinforce the woman’s protections.

Nightfall executed a respectful bow, as he had learned in Alyndar. "Sudian, squire to Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

The woman smiled, flushing with adolescent embarrassment at his formality. Her shy innocence, clearly no act, allayed Nightfall’s fears. He doubted a woman this young could have concocted and executed such an elaborate scheme so near to the time of awakening of sorcerer’s powers. "Yes, I know. According to these men…" She indicated the guards. "Your master told them you got wounded heroically defending his life."

Noshtillan. Nightfall identified her speech patterns from the first few words. Her expressions and voice revealed much. Though naive to decorum and politics, her easy talk and gentle gestures told him she had experience with men. "My master is kind and deserving of fierce loyalty." He approached with caution, gauging the guards as well as the woman. “You must be the one they call Genevra.”

“I am." The Healer rose as he approached, and her movements revealed more about her past. She seemed nearly as nervous as he had felt en route. He attributed that to the same fear of hidden sorcerers and to relative inexperience with sharing her gift. However, she reached for him with a practiced tenderness that suggested knowledge of passion, probably with more than one man. She seemed noticeably graceful for a woman of her age, with muscled legs honed by some physical sport rather than standard labor: dancing or horse work, most likely. The callus-free palm that closed around his uninjured hand reinforced the image. "Sit." She sank back to her pillow and indicated the mat in front of her. "I presume the problem is your hand, though I can see you’re limping, too."

Nightfall did as she bid, appreciating her powers of observation as well. While he had studied her, she had, apparently, studied him. Yet, her inspection clearly focused on his needs rather than his heritage or danger. He set to work unwinding the bandage from his fingers. It made sense to start there. Not only was it the more significant wound but attention to it would give her the chance to become more comfortable with him before having to minister to an injury in a personal location. As a prostitute’s son, Nightfall had had little experience with modesty as a child; but learning others’ embarrassments and weaknesses had served him well in the past, as a weapon as well as a tool for gaining trust. The last loop of cloth stuck to the slash, caked with blood. He pulled it free quickly, preferring a brief agony to a prolonged lesser pain, and the Healer winced in sympathy.

Genevra took Nightfall’s hand. Green eyes met blue-black and held momentarily. Her beauty stemmed from more than youth, but he sensed a deeper pain and fear before she turned her gaze to his injury. No doubt, she knew the terror of the hunted, and all suggestion that she might be a sorcerer fled his mind. “I’ll need to touch it. It takes some time to channel the energies properly, so find a comfortable position. It’ll feel strange, probably like nothing you’ve felt before.” She balanced his hand against her foot and the pillow, then looked at him for confirmation.

The position felt comfortable enough for now, but Nightfall took Genevra at her word, readjusting the location of palm and fingers until he found a relaxed and natural arrangement. The wound throbbed in a slow cadence. The fall from his horse had reopened the slash so it looked as if no healing had occurred, and he could still see yellow-white tendon gaping through muscle and skin. He nodded his readiness.

Unlike standard Healers, Genevra did not prod the wound. Without preamble, she clamped her grip to his. Nightfall scarcely felt the touch, though he did not know whether to attribute this to some specific of her gift or lack of sensation from the injury. The pressure did send a shock of pain through his arm that disappeared almost as quickly. The agony that had grown commonplace in the past weeks channeled away, leaving only the dull ache of his thigh and the persistent tingle of the oath-bond.

The Healer cringed, then shuddered. Her grip tightened, evidenced only by the shift of muscles through her forearm. Nightfall still could not perceive her hold.

Gradually, Genevra’s expression softened and her teeth unclenched. "Does that feel better?” Her demeanor became generally more relaxed and the gaze she turned him brighter.

"Much, my lady." Nightfall smiled as their eyes met again, trying to mellow the piercing stare that had terrified so many. "Does this healing hurt you?"

"Only at first." Genevra’s easy conversation made it clear she could talk throughout the process, though she tended to clip her words in the manner of Noshtillan’s lower class. "I have to draw out the pain to get rid of it. The healing, though, is simple enough. I just channel energy to you, and your body does the work."

Nightfall considered how this fell into Dyfrin’s speculation. A sorcerer’s spell would torture the gifted soul, not the caster. Although the healing process took time, the summoning of the power did not seem to tax Genevra at all. He glanced around at the overlord’s guards. The two stationed here watched the process with appropriate intentness, though their stances revealed boredom. His escorts chatted in low voices, their words too low to hear but their casual gestures revealing nothing menacing or of concern. Curiosity got the better of him then. He needed to understand why a young and pretty woman had trapped herself into the overlord’s service, providing care that caused her pain several times a day. At the least, he might gain some useful information about local practicing sorcerers. First, however, he had to rid himself of snooping ears. “You’re from the other peninsula, aren’t you?"

Genevra stiffened slightly. "How do you know that?"

“Your accent." Nightfall kept his expression gentle. “I only ask because I was raised in Mitano." He clung to the lie he had told Prince Edward. "I also spent a lot of time on Noshtillan’s streets. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking Xaxonese. Would you mind?"

"Not at all." Excited by the prospect, Genevra bought right into the story. "Do you know lavvey?" She referred to the language of the streets, a version of Xaxonese so rapid, clipped, and colorful with slang that it seemed more like a second tongue.

Like I invented it. Nightfall grinned. "We-niff," he said in dialect, the standard shortened form of "well enough." Although none of his standard personae dwelt in Noshtillan, his malnourished figure and youngish features had allowed him to play a dozen grubby street urchins when the need arose. He glanced at the guards, noting their Delforian features. Those from upper class breeding might have learned Xaxonese, but the rapidity of lavvey would probably render that knowledge wholly useless.

Healer and patient chattered for several moments about buildings, merchants, and life on the city streets. At first Nightfall believed she tested him, deliberately slipping into the deepest and quickest lavvey she could and making errors about Noshtillan to explore his knowledge. Nightfall parried each dodge with a deftness that came from long practice, correcting her mistakes without chiding or allowing her to lose face. It had too long been his job to know the ins and outs of every city on the continent, to evade his many enemies with a competence that made him seem more demon than human.

Over time, Nightfall regained his sense of touch, and the more normal pain that accompanied it seemed welcome. Gradually, that faded also, leaving the sensation of impression from Genevra’s hand and the clammy sweat that arose from long contact.

Soon, caught up in reminiscences, Genevra’s sham openness became sincere, a change Nightfall noticed at once and capitalized on with patient caution. He waited for a lull in the conversation to ask the important question, "Why do you do this?"

"This?" Genevra indicated their hands with a shifting of gaze. "I was born with the power." She released his hand. "There. Try that."

Nightfall opened and closed his hand several times, studying the location of the injury. His fingers moved easily, only slightly stiff from disuse. A long scar marred the palm. With time, he guessed, it would fade into the creases. "Vrin," he said, a mild and innocent exclamation of amazement.

"You just had the right kind of wound. Relatively fresh, straight, and not life-threatening. I’m very limited in what I can and can’t do." She dismissed her talent as quickly as Nightfall had passed over saving Edward’s life. "Now, let me see the other."

Nightfall stripped off his breeks, using a pillow to cover the indiscretion to save her from embarrassment rather than himself.

Unabashedly, Genevra studied the gash left from the broken railing.

"Will I survive?" Nightfall settled into a comfortable position.

Genevra swapped the sarcasm for some of her own. "Not if you keep throwing yourself in front of knives." She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. “Your master says you caught a blade in your bare hand."

Nightfall held up both hands, palms toward Genevra. "Do these look like the hands of someone who caught a dagger blade?"

The Healer laughed. "Is the younger prince really worth your life?”

I’m not sure heir worth his own life. Nightfall continued his act. "Three times over, at least."

Genevra delivered a more clever coup de grace than Nightfall expected. "Then why was someone pitching daggers at him?"

The conversation had shifted in the wrong direction, and discussion of details about himself bothered Nightfall. Still, it would risk the camaraderie he had worked so long to develop if he hesitated to answer. “We got caught in someone else’s feud. Just in the wrong place at a bad time."

Genevra accepted the explanation. She pressed her palm flat to the wound. "It’ll scar."

The concern seemed ludicrous. It would scar whether she assisted or not. Again, Nightfall chose gentle sarcasm. "Thanks for the warning. I’ll cancel all my engagements to parade naked in public areas. Anyone who chooses to gawk at my unclothed thigh deserves whatever ugliness he sees." He stopped just short of double entendre. Time had taught him that even lowborn women cared little for flirting from older men. Personal innuendo would earn him no goodwill.

Genevra lowered her head. Her body tightened, and her face screwed into a knot of concentration. Again, pain seemed to flow from Nightfall’s body, this time leaving only the buzzing itch of Gilleran’s magic. After days of constant aches, with or without movement, the simple lack of pain was euphoric.

Nightfall waited until Genevra’s features returned to normal, using the moments of silence to reclaim the conversation, still speaking in lavvey. "So why do you do this? I mean, why let others know what you can do? Why trap yourself into a small room with so many guards you can’t even take a piss in private? Is Pritikis paying you that well?"

“He’s not paying me at all." Genevra brushed blonde strands from her face with her free hand. "He feeds me and keeps me in clothes.” She waved at the garments hanging in the wall niche. "He gives me a comfortable place to stay and anything I want, within reason."

"Except a life, to speak of."

“They keep me safe, and I heal whoever they tell me.” She shrugged, managing to keep her healing hand still as she did. "There are worse existences than this."

"Working for no pay but sustenance. Sounds like slavery to me."

"No. This was my idea, and I chose it freely." A catch in her voice revealed details she had not disclosed that made the situation less of a decision than it seemed. “I gave the offer to the overlord. For the price of protection, I would heal his soldiers, or any others he asked, as I could."

"An agreement no sane man could refuse. My lady, you could have had much more. At the least, your freedom."

Genevra shuddered, and a bit of pain trickled back into the wound. "If you’re offering me a job in Alyndar, the answer is no. I’m comfortable here."

"I’m only a squire, lowborn, and not authorized to make deals for the king, nor even for myself." Nightfall did not have to feign his earnestness now. "In fact, only between us, I would warn you never to join an alliance with Alyndar. The king’s chancellor, Gilleran, is a sorcerer of the worst kind."

Genevra bit her lip, still coiled, and the twinge of pain that accompanied her lapse remained. "Thank you for the warning, Sudian. Sorcerers don’t take well to tipsters. I understand your loyalty to your master, but why risk your life for me?"

Wriggling further into Genevra’s confidence, Nightfall constructed a story. "Any lessening of a sorcerer’s power makes the world better. My sister has a birth skill. It’s to her benefit for me to identify the sorcerers and not to know her exact location at any time." The Healer’s taut nervousness goaded Nightfall to search for its source. "I’m not a sorcerer, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’ve no skills I didn’t come by honestly and few enough of those. The guard can tell you I didn’t question your movements… and I won’t."

Genevra laughed stiffly, her manner loosening only slightly. "I’m not worried about you. First, a sorcerer your size would fall quick prey to others. Second, I like you, and no compassionless killer could make me feel comfortable in his presence. Third, if I believe the prince’s story, and I do, no one could fake the devotion you’ve shown your master."

Nightfall wondered how Genevra would feel if she knew she was mistaken on all three counts. He put the clues together and believed he had found the answer. Fear had driven Genevra to exchange freedom for security, and that fear went deeper than vague possibility. "You’re being hunted, aren’t you? I mean specifically.”

Genevra spasmed with such force the contact sent pain spearing through Nightfall’s leg. Surprised, he jerked away, and the movement restored the Healer’s composure quickly enough that the guards did not interfere.

"I’m sorry," she said, tears Welling in her green eyes. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"That’s all right." Nightfall’s words emerged more choked than he intended. He rubbed at the area around the wound. Despite the pain, it had partially healed, the muscle approximated and only the tear in the skin remaining.

Genevra gestured him back in place. "I’m sorry. I just can’t help remembering…" She trailed off, the tears now rolling across, her cheeks.

Nightfall reached for Genevra, memory of his youth strong within him. The difference between the nights he cried alone and those that Dyfrin held him seemed the size of continent and heavens together.

Blades rasped from sheaths. Nightfall froze, rolling his eyes to a circle of swords in the hands of alert Delforian sentries. From habit, he measured distances and competence, not liking his odds.

"I’m fine," Genevra said, voice weak from crying. "He’s harmless."

"You’re certain, Healer?" one pressed. "Don’t lie under menace. We can run him through before he can carry out any threat against you."

Nightfall did not so much as breathe, convinced that the guard had spoken truth. Here, it seemed, even guile would fail him.

"I’m certain. Leave him go."

The swords retreated, then returned to sheaths, to Nightfall’s infinite relief. He recovered instantly, but stuck with the masquerade of young squire. He moved back to his place, withdrawing into himself and hoping, his silence looked stunned. Genevra returned to lavvey. "I’m really sorry. About the pain and the bared steel."

"Quite… all right? Nightfall balanced fear with gallantry. He quoted Prince Edward, "No harm was done.”

"It’s just, well, I saw a sorcerer tear a gift from a victim. That memory is agony that never dwindles."

The information attracted and repulsed at once, but the need for details of the sorcerers’ ritual won out. Knowing the intricacies would make it far easier to escape, and the understanding might shed some insight into how to pluck the murderers from a crowd. "Tell me about it."

"No." Genevra replied so fast she nearly obscured the end of Nightfall’s request.

"The knowledge might help my sister. And others like her and like you. Maybe I can even find a way to rid the world of whoever’s stalking you. It’s about time someone hunted the hunters." It was a hollow consideration, falling far short of a promise. Even as Nightfall, he had never dared to challenge sorcerers. Nearly every one kept his ghastly talent well-hidden and his powers unpredictable. It had seemed simpler and wiser to avoid them.

Nevertheless, Genevra found hope in Nightfall’s words. "About a year ago, I got work dancing at a hall down in Noshtillan. Nothing to complain about. Old Uber treated us pretty good given Noshtill’s just shy of slave country.” Genevra did not continue her healing, obviously concerned that flip-flopping emotions might cause her to hurt him again. "When a show didn’t go the best, he’d threaten to replace us all with bought girls, but he didn’t mean it." The Healer smiled nervously, humor shaded by fear. “Uber’d travel a lot to dance halls in other towns. Whenever he’d see something he liked, he’d bring back girls to teach it to us." She glanced at Nightfall, apparently to ascertain his reaction to the story so far.

Nightfall gave his attention fully, clinging to every word. He nodded encouragement for Genevra to continue.

"’bout three months ago, he brought back this Nemixite. Good dancer. She taught us a mass of new moves, nice ones, too. Some of them Uber brings back get standoffish thinking they’re so much better because someone brought them to teach. This one was real nice. We got to be friends." Genevra considered, chewing on her lower lip so persistently, Nightfall felt certain it would soon start to bleed. "So anyway, one day I go to see her to ask her about some moves. She didn’t have no private signal out, so I just went in without knocking.” She swallowed hard, suppressing major signs of distress that might attract the guards but unable to keep a tremor from her hands. "First thing I see is…" She closed her eyes.

Nightfall glanced between the sentries. Keeping his movement deliberate and without threat, he caught Genevra’s hand and gave a comforting squeeze. The Delforians huddled and stared, their expressions hard, but they did not interfere.

"A man. A stranger." Genevra’s fingers winched around Nightfall’s tight enough to hurt even after the healing. He appreciated her decision not to try to use her natal ability and speak at once. She looked at him, eyes moist with distress. "He lay on the floor, his back arched, his face twisted in pain like nothing I had ever seen. He was bleeding." Her grip lessened slightly. "I don’t know what l was thinking. Nothing, I guess. I reached to help him instinctively and touched his leg." She made an involuntary noise of anguish, soft as a whispered whine. "That pain, I can’t describe it." Despite her denial, she attempted to do so. "It went deep, to the core. I felt as if I touched his very soul. He had a birth-gift of some sort, and agony had brought it to the surface. A force like a dull knife was hacking the talent from him, and the pain only brought the gift more fully to the front." Genevra made another wordless sound, this time more of a sob.

Nightfall gave Genevra’s fingers a comforting squeeze, though it served only to clinch her grip tighter in response.

"Then I saw him."

"The sorcerer?" Nightfall guessed.

Genevra continued, letting the story serve answer. "He crouched over the man in pain, doing something, I never saw what. There was blood everywhere and… the pain and… and then he looked at me. Those eyes…” The Healer fell silent, attempting to gather enough composure to put words together in sequence. "The eyes seemed to flay me open, and he was smiling, like he enjoyed the agony he caused. And he knew… I know he knew. He touched my birth-gift, caressed it like a rapist, and I felt violated.” Genevra started crying now, violent with anguish. She caught at Nightfall, and he held her despite the guards’ glares.

Though young and beautiful, Genevra and her closeness brought Nightfall more discomfort than pleasure. Her description raised fear even in the hell-born demon he had come to believe himself to be. Her touch reminded him of Kelryn’s false love and the tears of his mother’s temporarily sincere apologies.

"I ran," Genevra managed to say at length. "I didn’t stop till I reached the innocence of a farm town." She gestured at random. "And I made my deal with the over-lord." Genevra pushed free of Nightfall’s hold, her crying already lessening to sniffles. Though her dress had scarcely wrinkled, she brushed at it in grand gestures and placed her hands gently against Nightfall’s wounded thigh. The healing process started again, but Genevra finished her story. “There was nothing I could have done for the man. If I’d stayed, I just would have given the sorcerer my power as well."

Nightfall nodded, hiding his own uneasiness behind concern for Genevra. "Sounds horrible. You poor thing."

"I was lucky." Genevra continued her work. "Whatever that man had must have been more important to the sorcerer than healing. He could have gone after me first. Or I might have blacked out instead of run."

Nightfall could not assess the truth of the comment. He knew nothing but rumors about how sorcerers claimed their victim’s natal gifts. "Is it true what they say? Did he eat the man’s beating heart?"

Genevra shuddered; this time, her healing did not falter. "I don’t know. I didn’t stay to see." She fell into a silence punctuated only by her own sighing breaths in the wake of her frenzy of grief over the memory.

Nightfall kept his head low, respecting her need for quiet. The guards relaxed a bit, clearly more comfortable with the hush than the conversation they could not fathom and gestures they could not fully read.

At length, Genevra took her hands away. “Finished," she said, but her manner betrayed a need.

"Thank you," Nightfall said, examining his leg. A jagged scar puckered the skin, and only movement would tell if it had left him with a limp. Still, though he wanted to stand and test the healing, he waited for Genevra to speak her request. When, after several moments, she did not, Nightfall prompted. "You want me to chase down this sorcerer, don’t you?" Nightfall had no intention of complying, but it cost him nothing to claim that he would.

"Oh, no." Genevra still seemed paralyzed by the memory. "I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to face off with raw evil. I just thought well maybe if you’re headed that way…?" She looked up, judging his reaction.

Nightfall returned her gaze with feigned affection and tenderness. "We’re going south, yes.”

Encouraged, Genevra finished. "Would you check on the dancer whose room I went to? Someone told me she never made it back to Nemix. I felt so guilty leaving her trapped with a sorcerer, but I was too panicked to try to save her, too. Now, I feel awful for my cowardice. I know she’s probably dead, too; but I can’t help hoping for her. If you find her, tell her I’m all right. And I wanted to help."

"I’ll tell her." Nightfall agreed with sincerity. Delivering such a message could only gain more information and goodwill, though he doubted he could possibly find the Nemixian dancer alive. "What’s her name?"

"Kelryn." Genevra launched into a description that Nightfall knew by rote.

Kelryn. Thoughts descended upon Nightfall in a storm. He would find her alive, he felt certain of it. The evil he had projected upon her intensified a hundredfold. She had not only betrayed him; apparently, she made a career of turning over the natally gifted to sorcerers. She sold me and my love for a sorcerer’s money. He no longer doubted that Gilleran knew precisely what he was, and the realization sent a shiver of fury through him. For Kelryn’s crime, she must pay with more than her life. He would find a way to inflict the pain that she had intended him and caused at least one other. “I’ll find her," Nightfall promised, hiding his determination behind a practiced mask of candor. "You can depend on it."