Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The short, direct reply startled Rikard. "What?"

"Sire, I didn’t understand much of the conversation, so I can only judge from tone and expression.” A strand of sweat-plastered orange hair slid free of his helmet to sprawl across his forehead. "But every line of his attitude, every set of his face, and, most of all, the eyes bespoke integrity."

The words surprised King Rikard. He paced around his chair, trying to process the information in the light of what he already knew. He, too, could not deny an inclination to trust Nightfall’s claims, this time at least; and many of the demon’s words struck home for him as they could not for Volkmier. He had trusted his chancellor too completely and too long to believe a lying, traitorous stranger first; yet, when it came to matters involving Nightfall, Rikard had already seen a side of Gilleran that seemed disparately cold. Is it possible that Leyne’s death was an accident? Could some other a jealous noble or an enemy of Alyndar have switched the helmet? Could it be that Gilleran drew the wrong conclusion, worse, used the opportunity to lay the blame on a man he hates? King Rikard shook his head to clear it from a line of thought that seemed ludicrous. To believe the word of a criminal over that of a long-loyal retainer seemed madness. Maybe, Gilleran just made a mistake. "What if I told you Sudian was a man experienced in deception and trickery?"

Volkmier stiffened, obviously taken back. “Sire, I would have no choice but to say he fooled me; but I’m in good company." He stroked some object in his tunic pocket, roughly rectangular in shape. "Or, perhaps, Sire, I’m just influenced by this." Thrusting his hand inside the pocket, he drew out a book. The dyed purple cover and its decorative swirls in silver leaf identified it at once as Leyne’s journal. "Forgive me, Sire, for bringing up such matters before the funeral, but the time seems right. Would you mind, Sire?"

King Rikard stopped before his chair, eyes narrowing with uncertainty. “This is germane?"

Volkmier explained. "Sire, it’s Leyne’s impression of Sudian."

Rikard dropped into his seat. Leyne’s ability to assess people and their intentions had always impressed him. He wanted to hear, but the grief was still too fresh. Leyne’s words in the voice of another man, opinions that survived beyond his death. He closed his eyes, picturing his most beloved son as the author of Volkmier’s speech. "Go ahead."

Volkmier cleared his throat. "It’s dated the fourteenth day of the Month of Plenty."

Two days before his murder. King Rikard felt tears sting his eyes and angrily banished them as weak and foolish.

Volkmier read: "… Finally met Sudian face to face. Must admit I mistrusted him at first. Felt certain those timid features and boyish dedication hid a greed only a prince’s gold could satisfy. Am thrilled to know I judged him wrong. The changes in Ned are nothing short of miraculous, the kind of self-control and understanding that could only come, l thought, with decades of experience. His dangerous exuberance has gained direction, now nothing short of determination. No doubt, Sudian is the cause. I tested the promises of loyalty I mistrusted and now find them as genuinely solid as the bond between my father and myself…" Captain Volkmier trailed off. "He went on to talk about the contests. Do you want to hear more?"

The king’s lip trembled, and he resisted speech until he felt capable of hiding his weakness. "No, not now." He reached for the book. "I’ll read the rest in private, when other matters don’t compete for my attention.” He reached for the journal, and Volkmier passed it to his king.

Back in Alyndar’s corridors, Nightfall navigated from habit, his thoughts riveted on the events in Rikard’s courtroom. Hope died, leaving only the familiar, bare spark that had allowed him to survive since childhood; yet that seemed more mockery than tool. His mind found the loophole, as it always did. Once the necessary grief-sharing and services had concluded, he would find some way to talk Edward into sneaking away from Alyndar for another attempt at landing. Duke-heir Willafrida seemed his most likely possibility once again. With Leyne gone, the duke could no longer set his sights on Alyndar’s eldest prince. Surely, Edward could learn to love her.

Yet, even discovering a solution did not lift Nightfall’s spirits. His time with Edward had taught him the difference between living happy and merely living, and survival had become a poor motivator when it meant condemning Edward, Kelryn, and himself to lifelong bitterness. Though not quite ready to discard the possibility of another means of landing, the best solution seemed obvious. Surely, Nightfall could find a way to antagonize King Rikard, Gilleran, or his retainers into murdering him before the oath-bond took him. Then, Edward and Kelryn could make a happy life together, even without the support of Alyndar’s king.

Nightfall continued toward Prince Edward’s quarters, persisting in his personal war now only from habit. It made sense to know the best result at any specific time; but, when the solution was permanent and extreme, to act before necessity seemed senseless. For now, he would follow the demands the oath-bond set on him, and his own heart when possible, and hope the possibility of dying violently would remain when the time came for final, irreversible decision.

Nightfall trotted up the winding staircase. The oath-bond had remained at baseline, nagging without driving, throughout his time away from Edward. Now, as realization of the length of time he had left the prince came to the fore, it amplified to a disquieting buzz that reminded Nightfall of the danger posed by the sorcerer who had cast the spell. Having a better feel for the players, Nightfall pieced together the various motivations for creating the situation that trapped him. Gilleran’s intentions had seemed clear nearly since the beginning; he had found a means to all but ascertain possession of Nightfall’s soul and natal gift. Likely, King Rikard’s choice of execution, even for a criminal as notorious as Nightfall, would have precluded Gilleran’s ceremony. By talking the king into the oath-bond, Gilleran had assured his prize and, at the same time, placed the youngest prince at the fate of a practiced and conscienceless killer.

The king’s reasons continued to puzzle Nightfall, and they seemed complex. First, Gilleran surely used his long relationship, and possibly magic, to assist the decision. Whether Rikard also hoped for the deaths of two pests or truly believed the association would benefit Edward, Nightfall still could not fathom. The private conversation between king and prince would bring answers, shedding light on their relationship. He dared to hope it would prove positive; Edward and Leyne had to have gotten their sense of justice and fair play from some source.

Nightfall had just turned his contemplations to his own fate when he heard light footsteps on the stairs above, headed toward him. The curve of the spiral staircase hid the approaching figure from view. Nightfall stopped, keeping close to the rail to leave space for the other to pass. As soon as he did, Gilleran swung around the corner, his mousy hair neatly combed and in place. A scar puckered the skin between cheek and ear. His blue eyes seemed to smolder, and a frown crept slowly down his mouth. “So. He chose to let you go. How could our good king make such an error?"

Nightfall watched the sorcerer’s approach without flinching. He felt confident Gilleran would not attempt his ceremony in the castle in plain view of any guard, Nargol, or noble who happened upon it. Anything less, Nightfall felt prepared to handle. If Gilleran wished to banter words, Nightfall would give him cause to worry. "Perhaps he finally realized his chancellor is a scheming rodent posing as a man."