Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The skill had served Nightfall well in later years. Reading expressions had become as ingrained as a swords-man’s riposte to a sparring mate’s favorite attack. At a glance, he could tell which sources to trust and which to challenge. To an outsider, the skill might seem uncanny. Nightfall knew it was the cause of the rumors that stated he knew, without words, who wanted his services and that to lie to Nightfall was suicide. It had always pleased him that gentle threat had proved enough; he had not needed to actually kill to support the tales.

Now Nightfall’s ability kicked in without need for concentration. And though his benefactor had a softness of features that encouraged trust, Nightfall saw through the facade. The man’s eyes revealed the hard glimmer of one who has taken enough lives to no longer see the value in any single one. Several possibilities rose to Nightfall’s mind. A mercenary, perhaps. A soldier. A guard. The occupation made no difference to Nightfall; the mind-set was all that mattered.

The man continued to hold Nightfall’s arm, as if searching for something. "Are you sure you’re well? Do you need me to take you to a healer?"

"No," Nightfall said politely, trying to think of an equally decorous means of freeing his arm. This is odd. What does he want from me? Nightfall considered quickly. His skill at reading emotion and intention helped little with deeper motivation, especially that of a stranger. "I’m fine now. Thank you." He glanced in the direction he had been headed, letting his gaze rove to the passing pedestrians as a hint.

Still, the man did not release Nightfall.

"Lord, thank you. I’m well." Nightfall made a sudden movement that freed him from the stranger’s hold. "Excuse me, please. My master expects me back shortly."

The stranger fell into step with Nightfall. “Yes, of course. I’m headed this direction anyway. Let me just walk a little way with you to make sure you’ve got your equilibrium back."

Nightfall continued walking, cursing his need to play the subordinate. "Whatever you wish, lord. But I assure you it’s unnecessary," he said, hoping his tone conveyed discomfort. This stranger’s concern for another man’s squire seemed too peculiar to pass unchallenged. He combed his thoughts for some way to identify this man, some mistake he might have made to reveal his own alter ego. But Nightfall’s experience made him certain no one could see through the change, except perhaps his old friend, Dyfrin, whose talent for reading people made Nightfall’s look amateurish. And this man is decidedly not Dyfrin.

The stranger slipped into casual conversation. "Those are Alyndar’s colors you’re wearing aren’t they? Who is your master?"

Nightfall could not help wondering why this stranger insisted on asking his questions in pairs, especially when Nightfall kept deigning to answer only the second. Still uncertain of the man’s interest, Nightfall’s first instinct was to avoid the query. But the need to keep his role as loyal squire intervened. He squared his shoulders, adopting a posture of visible pride. "I am the squire to Younger Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar.”

"Ah," the man said. "A position of honor." Something preoccupied in his tone made it clear that this was not the information he was seeking.

That fact and the quiet stillness of the oath-bond, eased Nightfall’s mind, though not his guard. It’s not Ned. It’s me he wants. But why?

The two men approached a crossroad. Nightfall debated whether to turn left, toward the dance hall, or continue straight until he got a better feel for his unwelcome companion.

But before he could make a decision, the stranger stumbled over an irregularity in the stone walkway. He flailed, catching a sudden hold on Nightfall’s forearm, as if to steady himself. But the motion seemed too clumsy to be anything but exaggerated, perhaps even staged.

Cued, Nightfall barely resisted the urge to triple his weight and save them both a fall. The stranger crashed to the walkway. Nightfall landed on his hands and knees, the stone tearing a flap from his britches, bruising his knee, and abrading his palms. The impact jarred him free of the other’s grip. He wanted me to fall. But why? Nightfall’s mind raced, racking his thoughts for some action of his that might have drawn the attention of a killer. Is he a guard? A hired assassin?

Neither idea seemed likely. I haven’t done anything illegal or suspicious, except rob Myar. Nightfall rose, studying the stranger with an expression of veiled annoyance and surprise. Myar would be a fool to report a crime that would implicate himself. Besides, it would take time. And, surely, a servant would not attract the attention of murderers and thieves. Sudian hasn’t existed long enough to have made enemies. Trusting his instincts, Nightfall knew the stranger had not been trailing him. The first touch was coincidence. But something about it made him curious about me. He forced his thoughts back to the original encounter.

The bearded man clambered to his feet, looking sheepish. "I’m so sorry." He took a step toward Nightfall as if to help him up, though the squire had risen first. Afternoon sunlight sparkled from eyes dark as the muddy roadway, enhancing the predatory glare that made Nightfall edgy. It went beyond the haunted look of one who has killed from necessity to a selfish disdain for lesser men’s lives. Nightfall had seen the expression only once before, in the face of King Rikard’s adviser.

Gilleran. Gilleran the sorcerer. The answer kicked in with shocking abruptness, bringing terror with it. Could this man be a sorcerer? Nightfall backed away in revulsion. He recalled the brief moment when he had dropped his weight, before he had recognized a stranger’s hand upon his arm. I used my talent for only an instant. He couldn’t have possibly discovered it. Could he? Surely, no normal man would have noticed such a thing. Yet, Nightfall had to guess that this sorcerer spent much of his time looking for excuses to touch and observe strangers, trying to spot that one out of every thousand people with a special, congenital ability. If I can identify the contents of a man’s purse with a touch, why do I doubt a sorcerer could recognize magic as quickly? A more horrifying thought followed. Can he sense the oath-bond? If so, I ’m going to be running from every sorcerer in the world.

"I’m really sorry," the man repeated, again shuffling toward Nightfall.

“Get away from me," Nightfall said, trying to sound indignant rather than frightened. He could still feel the place where the sorcerer had grabbed him, and it made him feel unclean in a way no plague-ridden beggar ever had. He fingered the tear in his linens with dismay, softening the demand. "Please. With all respect, lord, I think I was better balanced alone.” I have to presume he staged the fall to test me, because he wasn’t certain of what he felt. So it probably wasn’t the oath-bond. The idea soothed his raw-edged nerves. In that case, my allowing him to knock me down might well have convinced him he was mistaken. Dodging around his benefactor, Nightfall continued down the street, attuned to sounds of pursuing footsteps beneath the stomp, click, and chatter of other passersby, headed from the market square. He heard nothing to suggest the man had followed. The wary prickle at his back disappeared.

With the immediate threat removed, Nightfall pushed the incident to the back of his mind. For now, he could do nothing but hope he had passed the sorcerer’s test and stay alert for future experiments or confrontations. He turned a corner, stealing a glance in the direction from which he had come. The stranger had turned and was now retreating back toward the market square.

Relieved, Nightfall turned his concentration to the Nemixian dance hall. Just as quickly, doubts suffused him, wildly out of place in the mind of the night-stalking demon that had stolen the unstealable, swindled wise men, and shattered the sleep of the brave. Memory stole his composure, flinging him back to lazy summer Sundays spent meandering between stands, Kelryn’s presence a warm constant beside him, her laughter like music in his ear.