Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

As the three walked past shops and cottages, Nightfall sought information, keeping his queries and comments within the realm of normal curiosity. "The wound is deep. I appreciate your effort and generosity, but I doubt there’s much this Healer can do for me."

The guards exchanged knowing smiles that unnerved Nightfall. "Genevra’s good,” the one to his right said. "She’s fixed a lot of injuries people doubted she could help."

Nightfall studied the speaker’s wide, friendly features. A brown mustache hid his upper lip. Coloring and the set of his face identified him as a Delforian native, and his accent fit the region. "Obviously she’s someone important. I never saw a town so protective of a Healer, nor any Healer with such a following.” Nightfall made a broad gesture that included the sparse beggars but also indicated the incident from earlier in the day. The guilt that came from the reminder might make the guards more talkative.

“She’s a special Healer," the same man said. "Doesn’t use herbs or stitches or nothing.”

The other guard, also a native Delforian cut in, "She’s got some sort of magical power, but she ain’t like no sorcerer I ever heared tell of."

Just the pronouncement of "sorcerer" sent Nightfall’s throat spasming closed. His step faltered for an instant, but he otherwise gave no sign of his distress. He searched for solace and guidance, finding it in the realization that Genevra far more likely belonged among the one out of every thousand with a natal ability than the one out of five thousand with a bent toward sorcery. The realization did little to allay anxiety, however. Hunting and slaying sorcerers probably kept the numbers of natally empowered and sorcerers even, and he had never heard of one of the congenitally gifted sharing her skill so flagrantly. Still, it made just as little sense for a sorcerer to do so. They could gain their spells by ritualistically slaughtering other sorcerers as well as from the innocently gifted. Unless she’s so competent she’s trying to draw other sorcerers to her. That brought another idea to the fore, one that might help him differentiate natal from captured skill. Dyfrin had a theory that the gifted could operate their powers by thought alone, perhaps accompanied by a simple point or touch when those abilities required directing. Sorcerers, however, needed to torment their stolen and bonded souls to activate their powers, a process that required gestures and/or words.

Nightfall’s contemplations dropped him into a silence he knew he had to break to keep the conversation natural. “Magic? I don’t know as I believe in it, but it can’t hurt to let her try." For all his cheery confidence, Nightfall felt uncertain of his decision. The odds all seemed in his favor. If Genevra was a fraud, he lost nothing. If she turned out to have a congenital gift, she might have the competence to restore use to his hand, without which he had small chance for survival, if she were a sorcerer, she would still have to establish that he had a gift before she tried to take it from him. Unless she obtained some spell that allows her to recognize powers in others. The thought chilled him. The gifts took many and varied unpredictable forms, and he could not begin to guess the possibilities. If it existed, that particular gift, he felt certain, would become the coveted property of every sorcerer in existence.

The guards made wordless noises of agreement as they circled the fountain and approached the front of the central building. Nearby, the community hall seemed to have shrunk in the shadow of the Healer’s structure, though both were constructed from the same Delforian oak. Nightfall made a mental note to stop in the hall before taking leave of Delfor. Few of the farmers and citizens could read, but they did keep up a pictorial and color-coded board to let others know who needed assistance or had jobs for hire. Using it, Nightfall might see to it that Telwinar’s belongings, tools, and horses found their way to those most needy.

Catching himself falling naturally into Telwinar’s character, Nightfall shook the thought from his mind. It belonged in the head of the withdrawn and plodding farmer, not starry-eyed Sudian or the demon who haunted men’s nightmares in all corners of the continent. Instead, while the guards exchanged comments with four others standing alert before the Healer’s door, his mind drafted the one most significant question.

The guards returned momentarily, and Nightfall spoke quickly. Once they gestured him through the doors the time for chatter would end. "Does this Genevra have other magic besides healing?" He had never heard of anyone with more than one natal ability. Possessing two or more would affirm her as a sorcerer, though a single gift would tell him nothing. A sorcerer who had killed only once was still a sorcerer.

"Only the magic all pretty, young women have over men," the rightward guard said.

The other nodded agreement. "The magic of the nubile. This way, Squire." He gestured a path between the four sentries, who stepped aside to let the trio pass.

Though discomfited, Nightfall hid all signs from long practice. If she were a sorcerer, obvious anxiety would surely catch her attention.

The guards pulled open the thick panel. They ushered Nightfall through it and into an antechamber with a second door on the far side. "You’ll have to leave any weapons here." The outer door clanged shut, locked from the outside. “You’ll get them back."

The idea of disarming himself before a possible sorcerer rankled, and the injuries that hampered his usual agility only amplified his concern. Still, the precaution made sense. If not a sorcerer herself, the Healer had much to fear from a parade of armed strangers, any of whom could hide his bent for ritual murder and magic. Her skill seemed far more useful and precious than Nightfall’s own. Mimicking Edward’s guileless innocence, he handed over sword and belt and the remaining pair of his knives. He had left the six knives from Alyndar’s armory in his gear and lost the third throwing knife in the battle in Nemix. He kept the one of Grittmon’s jeweled blades he had recovered, hidden well enough that a standard search would not uncover it. The guards frisked him briefly; Nightfall guessed he underwent the abbreviated version as an emissary from Alyndar’s king. Apparently satisfied, one pulled out a key and unlocked the second door. He pushed it open.

The room beyond smelled faintly of incense. Mats and pillows lay scattered around the floor, enough to sleep six or seven comfortably. A hearth lined one wall, swept clean; and shelves on the other held knickknacks in human and animal shapes, perfume, and toiletries. A niche in the wall supported a bar from which hung several cloaks and dresses, plain but well-sewn. A young woman sat cross-legged on a green cushion with corner tassels. Straight, blonde hair fell to her waist, shimmering in the light of several torches in sconces along the walls. Her fair features held the blush of youth; and Nightfall estimated her age between seventeen and twenty-one years. By her coloring, he guessed she was born of southern folk, from Noshtillan, Sehiz, or Meclar. Once she spoke, her accent and the timbre of her speech would likely reveal her origin more specifically. A pair of guards stood nearby, their expressions grim and businesslike.

As Nightfall stepped into the room, his escort closed the door behind him, remaining inside to reinforce the woman’s protections.

Nightfall executed a respectful bow, as he had learned in Alyndar. "Sudian, squire to Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

The woman smiled, flushing with adolescent embarrassment at his formality. Her shy innocence, clearly no act, allayed Nightfall’s fears. He doubted a woman this young could have concocted and executed such an elaborate scheme so near to the time of awakening of sorcerer’s powers. "Yes, I know. According to these men…" She indicated the guards. "Your master told them you got wounded heroically defending his life."