Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

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

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

The king and his chancellor waited, eyeing Nightfall expectantly.

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

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

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

"Some of them," Nightfall admitted.

"You have killed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prince Leyne Nargol," Nightfall supplied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightfall waited, still seeing no need for his services.

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

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

"I want you to become Ned’s squire."

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

"There are conditions, of course."

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

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

Nightfall hid his aversion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightfall frowned.

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