Mickey Reichert: The legend of Nightfall

The emissary paled, turning back to the king. "I…"

The door to the Great Hall whipped open suddenly, slamming against the far wall with a jolt that dislodged the hanging shield. Prince Edward Nargol strode into the aisle, flanked by his personal steward and two members of the guard. The shield plummeted in Edward’s wake, missing the harried steward by luck alone, crashing to the floor at his feet. The sound of metal striking stone rang through the room. The steward leapt backward, eyes round as coins, hands clutching at his chest.

King Rikard groaned, wondering what moral cause his impetuous eighteen-year-old had chosen to champion this time.

Prince Edward stormed down the aisle, his golden hair flying, his beautiful, round face too gentle-featured to reveal his rage. "You can’t do business with Hartrin, Father. It would be wrong." He wore the padding of the practice field, straps and laces dangling where he had begun to remove his gear.

The emissary spun around to face the prince stomping toward him. His expression mixed fear and uncertainty.

The steward stepped around the shield, trotting to catch up with his charge and the two-guard escort.

The Hartrinian emissary skittered aside as Edward clomped to a halt before the dais. "Father, Hartrin keeps slaves."

King Rikard reined in his temper with difficulty. Though familiar, his younger son’s interruptions had become nearly intolerable over the last few years. "Ned, this isn’t the time. We’ll talk later."

Edward’s expression lapsed into righteous distress, now devoid of rage. "Not the time? But how can it ever not be the time to right an evil against mankind?" He pounded a gloved fist into his palm with each point. "I’m talking about every man’s basic right to freedom. I’m talking about every man’s right to respect and to dignity under the almighty Father. I’m talking about elemental, fundamental morality-"

"Ned!" King Rikard shouted over his youngest son’s tirade. I ’m talking about you rambling in my court! He kept the chastisement to himself. Over the years, he had gained a reputation for fairness and saw no reason to tarnish it by humiliating the prince in public. No matter how much he deserves it. "Ned, I’m not going to warn you again."

Prince Edward fell silent, his blue eyes bright, his brows raised, and his forehead creased with surprise.

"When I’m finished here, we’ll talk. Until then, find something constructive to do. Outside my court!" Rikard jabbed a finger toward the exit, looking to the escort to carry out his command if it became necessary.

The guards shifted nervously, apparently loath to man-handle the prince.

But Ned made their interference unnecessary. He turned with a pensiveness that alerted his father to trouble, then marched back down the aisle the way he had come. The steward scrambled after his charge.

King Rikard sat back with a sigh, watching his son’s retreat. The youth moved with long, solid strides, the pudgy steward jogging after him, requiring a step and a half for each of Edward’s. The prince sported his father’s iron-boned frame, firmed by weapons training, dance lessons, and horse riding. Wasted. All wasted. The king shook his head, wishing he had interfered more with his wife’s attention to her younger child. May she dance forever in the Fathers light, she meant well; but tutors, poets, and storytellers do not make a strong man or a competent ruler Ned has no understanding of reality. Rikard had wished his younger son to become a warrior in his brother’s service, a pursuit that well-matched his temper and size; yet the good queen had leaned toward the artistic and scholarly. I should never have let her hire Zakrao to teach him. He pictured the tutor, a lanky Rankellian who talked as much with his hands as his mouth and whose idea of "fairness” was based on the wants, not the worth, of a man. Zakrao would take the side of a slackard for no other reason than that no one else would and consider it justice only if the fool got his way. Now, Rikard shook his head at the memory and at his son’s retreating back. As the exit swung closed behind Prince Edward and his entourage, the king turned his attention to Leyne. Thank the gods, one of my sons will make a good king.

The Hartrinian emissary retook his position before the throne, waiting with his head lowered and his hands folded across his abdomen.

The king turned his consideration back to the emissary. Before Prince Edward had arrived, he had the Hartrinian well trapped into a deal that would benefit Alyndar. Now, the mood had disappeared. "Does Hartrin agree to the new arrangement‘?" he asked with little hope that it would be the case, The emissary had had plenty of time to consider the deal, detail its flaws in his mind, and think of a suitable escape from his corner.

The emissary cleared his throat. "With all respect, Sire, I was not authorized to make that particular deal. I am, however, permitted to agree to having both countries pay l ten percent of profits as tariff, year round."

"Done." King Rikard nodded once, keeping all evidence of his relief from his outward expression. He had tired of ldinbal’s games. Ten percent closely approximated trade agreements with the other two kingdoms. "Dismissed."

Pivoting, the Hartrinian left the Great Hall. King Rikard watched as the nobleman departed, waiting for the finality of the closing door.

But the Great Hall door remained open. Two soldiers in the lavender and gray of Alyndar’s prison guards entered, their lighter uniforms conspicuous against the deeper purple and silver of the royal guard. Rikard recognized one as the chief of the dungeon guards, a compact redhead named Volkmier. Then, the door clicked closed behind them.

King Rikard’s pulse quickened. He saw the prison guards only rarely. Considering his last instructions to them, he knew they must bring news of Nightfall. Yet he also realized the facts would far more likely prove disappointing. Named for a night-stalking demon in a child’s nursery rhyme, Nightfall had become more notorious than the legend that spawned his name. Likely, he had committed only half the crimes attributed to him over the last twenty years; but if he had committed just a quarter, it was still more evil per moon cycle than most men could perpetrate in a lifetime.

Volkmier and his companion marched down the aisle, their approach interminably long. Rumors claimed that Nightfall heard every whisper spoken to the night wind. Those who wanted an item taken, a person slaughtered, an enemy discredited or killed need only let the dark breezes carry the message. Then they must be prepared to pay, if not in gold or money, then with their own blood. Many believed Nightfall was the demon of fable come to life, but Rikard knew better. The rhyme was older than his own childhood, but the man who haunted the nights of every country on the continent had earned his reputation a scant twenty years ago and probably began his spree of crime no more than a decade before that time. Captured swagmen, fronts, and smugglers swore that Nightfall was a single man. To the one, they described him as dark and imposing, a bearded man with a wickedly scarred face, a gravelly voice, and eyes the color of blackened steel. And, somehow, Chancellor Gilleran had discovered the connection between Nightfall and a Nemixite called Marak.

The prison guards stopped before the dais. Eager for details, King Rikard addressed them before they could execute the customary formalities. “What news do you bring, Volkmier?"

The chief prison guard poised, halfway bowed. "Majesty, we have Nightfall in custody."

Joy thrilled through Rikard, tainted by caution. He glanced to his right. Even Gilleran’s usually blank face held a tight-lipped smile. The king leaned forward, hands clamped to the armrests of his chair. "Raven turned him over? He’s in the prison?"