Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

"Careful, Sudian." Prince Edward flinched in sympathy, his warning senseless after the act. "And, no. I don’t think anyone followed us. I ran, as you insisted, though I did leave ten silvers. I’m embarrassed that we had a hand in ruining that inn. The owner deserved restitution, and there’s blood price to take care of for the dead."

The blood of that human crud was more valuable splattered on the roadway than in their worthless bodies. Nemix should have paid us. And restitution? For what? Grittmon’s attempt to slaughter us? Nightfall stared. "Master, the owner was the man flinging daggers at us." It occurred to him then that pursuit was unlikely. Grittmon’s bribes kept the constabulary out of the affairs of his tavern. He had paid for their blindness and deafness, not for their support. For all that the criminals had wanted Sudian dead, they had failed the job in numbers and on their own territory. There, they could claim accident. On international ground, the murder of a prince and his squire would not go unexplored nor unpunished, a price too high to pay for the life of a servant who had only sought information.

“And why was the owner throwing daggers?"

Nightfall continued to study the prince’s face, as if to read the insanity nestled behind features that seemed as unrealistically beautiful and innocent as his nature. Even the fading whip mark scarcely marred the perfection of a countenance as rare and noble as his station. Because he wanted to kill us, you blitheringly ignorant pretty-boy. And you gave our money to the first thief who notices it lying there. Nightfall searched for a respectful reply, analyzing tone to decide whether the prince expected a specific response or demanded an answer because he could not guess the truth.

As time passed in silence, Edward’s eyes widened. He flexed his hands impatiently.

Clearly, Prince Edward had not meant for the query to remain rhetorical, yet Nightfall could think of no comment that would not sound sarcastic or disrespectful. He searched for a simple lie.

"Sudian, why did we get attacked? Did you do or say something to instigate it?"

Nightfall adopted the most stricken look he could muster, which proved easy under the circumstances. "Certainly not, Master. I ate in silence. I got up to relieve myself, and I accidentally got caught in the middle of their fight. I had a choice: defend myself or die." He rolled his gaze to Edward, feigning desperation. "I’m no use to you dead from another man’s argument?

“Nor dead from a dagger thrown at me. Nor dead from my own sword stroke."

"To die for you, Master, would be an honor. Nothing could please me, or the holy Father, more." Nightfall managed to meet Prince Edward’s eyes and stomach the falseness of his own words. The oath-bond receded to a distant tingle, all but intangible for the first time since its casting.

Tears blurred Edward’s eyes to blue puddles of joy. For once, he had won the devotion and pride his father had never given, the same that Nightfall had sought from the seven sisters as a child but found only in the gentle words of a friend named Dyfrin.

Though the magic went dormant, guilt hurt nearly as much as Nightfall’s wounds.

As the day wore on, Prince Edward’s sentiment gave way to a lecture that seemed endless. "… and you never hurl weapons in the direction of your allies. In the tavern, we both got lucky…"

I could have hit that thug in my sleep. You were never in any danger from me.

"… A shouted warning would have alerted me to trouble without the risk of stabbing me instead of my enemy…"

And left you dead and my soul enslaved to your father’s sorcerer.

"… As to diving between my sword and an opponent…" From dawn until dusk, Prince Edward Nargol enlightened his squire with details and rules of strategy, frequently dismounting to sketch the battle techniques of past generals in the dirt.

Nightfall listened closely enough to nod or grunt in the appropriate places; but, as specifics gave way to history and universality, little made sense to him. The prince’s voice became a drone that aided sleep and not much else. It occurred to Nightfall to question why, if these tacticians knew so much about battle, they were all dead; but he wisely held his tongue. The easy pace gave him the chance he needed to keep the healing wound in his leg well-stretched and free of binding scar. A recognizable limp, like a missing limb or permanent facial deformity, would steal all opportunity for competent disguises.

The ride to Delfor stretched into a two week crawl that kept the horses well-rested. The whetted edge of Grittmon’s dagger had left a straight, clean injury. The edges approximated well, without jagged skin flaps, excessive healing tissue, or infection. Nightfall had hints that coordination and feeling might gradually return to his hand by the time he and the prince reached the familiar checkerboard of corn and hay that defined the outskirts of the village of Delfor. Each year, the farmers reversed which fields grew which crop, always staying with the fodder expected by its animal-raising neighbors. The two crops complemented one another perfectly, each restoring the nutrients that the other claimed from the soil. Nightfall had learned this tenet well as Telwinar, a gentle but reclusive Delforian farmer. In the spring, he tilled and planted. He plied his other personae and skills through the winter and the growing season. In the fall, he returned for harvest.

This year, Telwinar’s fields would lie fallow as he disappeared, along with Nightfall’s other identities. Within days, the other farmers would notice the lapse. The over-lord would pronounce him dead, and his five fields would be distributed to neighbors or assigned to someone new. His few valuables would find their way into the over-lord’s coffers. Nearby farmers would claim his horses and equipment. Thieves would acquire the rest.

Nightfall smiled, certain he would miss none of it. He recalled the ceaseless beat of the sun, drying his skin to leather, the daily grind of hitching and driving horses, the tedium of scything hay and plucking corn ears, the ache of his muscles after a day of steadying the plow. Yet with the other memories came the crisp, earthy perfume of soil I freshly tilled, a golden wave of wind-bowed stalks heavy with corn, and the sense of accomplishment that could not help blossoming into pride when the yield lay heaped in wagons for export. Of which Telwinar got to keep only enough for the next year’s seed and sustenance, alive in body, if not in soul, until the coming year. The land, the crop, and the money from its sales belonged, as always, to the overlord.

The thought steered Nightfall’s mind to the more pressing matter of the oath-bond. The land belongs to the over-lord. Or to the king. He considered. Overlord Pritikis had inherited his holdings from his father, now dead. Other farmers toiled for different landowners: barons, knights, and princes. So where did they get their land? It seemed a simple question yet one Nightfall had never considered. He had worked only toward his own survival. Money and anonymity had pleased him well enough; and he had used his various personae to escape, rather than enhance, his notoriety. Only titled gentry, he knew, could own land at all, and the prospect of courting favor from the silk-swathed snobbery had never interested him. Now the question of process became all-consuming. At least Ned comes with his own title. One less tedious detail I have to deal with.

Prince Edward fell silent as the path left forest to become sandwiched between patches of moist earth speckled with the remains of the previous year’s harvest, shredded by the plow. His horse balked at the change in terrain, shying with a suddenness that swung its rump into the packhorse. The chestnut’s ears flattened in annoyance, and it threw its head to gain more rein for a fight. Nightfall veered his bay to give the packhorse more room. Hemmed between horses, it would surely turn warning into action and vent its frustration on Edward’s gelding. The squire cut in front of the prancing white, using his mare’s calm as a guide as well as boxing the gelding into stillness. Next step, Nightfall thought, rid ourselves of the other pretty nuisance. He glanced from white to chestnut. The spade lay secured above a single pack. The better part of their unnecessary gear had conveniently disappeared in Nemix, thanks to the well-paid stable boy. They no longer needed three horses, especially since his bay’s "bruised hoof”’ had miraculously completely healed by the time they arrived in town.