Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Noshtillan. Nightfall identified her speech patterns from the first few words. Her expressions and voice revealed much. Though naive to decorum and politics, her easy talk and gentle gestures told him she had experience with men. "My master is kind and deserving of fierce loyalty." He approached with caution, gauging the guards as well as the woman. “You must be the one they call Genevra.”

“I am." The Healer rose as he approached, and her movements revealed more about her past. She seemed nearly as nervous as he had felt en route. He attributed that to the same fear of hidden sorcerers and to relative inexperience with sharing her gift. However, she reached for him with a practiced tenderness that suggested knowledge of passion, probably with more than one man. She seemed noticeably graceful for a woman of her age, with muscled legs honed by some physical sport rather than standard labor: dancing or horse work, most likely. The callus-free palm that closed around his uninjured hand reinforced the image. "Sit." She sank back to her pillow and indicated the mat in front of her. "I presume the problem is your hand, though I can see you’re limping, too."

Nightfall did as she bid, appreciating her powers of observation as well. While he had studied her, she had, apparently, studied him. Yet, her inspection clearly focused on his needs rather than his heritage or danger. He set to work unwinding the bandage from his fingers. It made sense to start there. Not only was it the more significant wound but attention to it would give her the chance to become more comfortable with him before having to minister to an injury in a personal location. As a prostitute’s son, Nightfall had had little experience with modesty as a child; but learning others’ embarrassments and weaknesses had served him well in the past, as a weapon as well as a tool for gaining trust. The last loop of cloth stuck to the slash, caked with blood. He pulled it free quickly, preferring a brief agony to a prolonged lesser pain, and the Healer winced in sympathy.

Genevra took Nightfall’s hand. Green eyes met blue-black and held momentarily. Her beauty stemmed from more than youth, but he sensed a deeper pain and fear before she turned her gaze to his injury. No doubt, she knew the terror of the hunted, and all suggestion that she might be a sorcerer fled his mind. “I’ll need to touch it. It takes some time to channel the energies properly, so find a comfortable position. It’ll feel strange, probably like nothing you’ve felt before.” She balanced his hand against her foot and the pillow, then looked at him for confirmation.

The position felt comfortable enough for now, but Nightfall took Genevra at her word, readjusting the location of palm and fingers until he found a relaxed and natural arrangement. The wound throbbed in a slow cadence. The fall from his horse had reopened the slash so it looked as if no healing had occurred, and he could still see yellow-white tendon gaping through muscle and skin. He nodded his readiness.

Unlike standard Healers, Genevra did not prod the wound. Without preamble, she clamped her grip to his. Nightfall scarcely felt the touch, though he did not know whether to attribute this to some specific of her gift or lack of sensation from the injury. The pressure did send a shock of pain through his arm that disappeared almost as quickly. The agony that had grown commonplace in the past weeks channeled away, leaving only the dull ache of his thigh and the persistent tingle of the oath-bond.

The Healer cringed, then shuddered. Her grip tightened, evidenced only by the shift of muscles through her forearm. Nightfall still could not perceive her hold.

Gradually, Genevra’s expression softened and her teeth unclenched. "Does that feel better?” Her demeanor became generally more relaxed and the gaze she turned him brighter.

"Much, my lady." Nightfall smiled as their eyes met again, trying to mellow the piercing stare that had terrified so many. "Does this healing hurt you?"

"Only at first." Genevra’s easy conversation made it clear she could talk throughout the process, though she tended to clip her words in the manner of Noshtillan’s lower class. "I have to draw out the pain to get rid of it. The healing, though, is simple enough. I just channel energy to you, and your body does the work."

Nightfall considered how this fell into Dyfrin’s speculation. A sorcerer’s spell would torture the gifted soul, not the caster. Although the healing process took time, the summoning of the power did not seem to tax Genevra at all. He glanced around at the overlord’s guards. The two stationed here watched the process with appropriate intentness, though their stances revealed boredom. His escorts chatted in low voices, their words too low to hear but their casual gestures revealing nothing menacing or of concern. Curiosity got the better of him then. He needed to understand why a young and pretty woman had trapped herself into the overlord’s service, providing care that caused her pain several times a day. At the least, he might gain some useful information about local practicing sorcerers. First, however, he had to rid himself of snooping ears. “You’re from the other peninsula, aren’t you?"

Genevra stiffened slightly. "How do you know that?"

“Your accent." Nightfall kept his expression gentle. “I only ask because I was raised in Mitano." He clung to the lie he had told Prince Edward. "I also spent a lot of time on Noshtillan’s streets. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking Xaxonese. Would you mind?"

"Not at all." Excited by the prospect, Genevra bought right into the story. "Do you know lavvey?" She referred to the language of the streets, a version of Xaxonese so rapid, clipped, and colorful with slang that it seemed more like a second tongue.

Like I invented it. Nightfall grinned. "We-niff," he said in dialect, the standard shortened form of "well enough." Although none of his standard personae dwelt in Noshtillan, his malnourished figure and youngish features had allowed him to play a dozen grubby street urchins when the need arose. He glanced at the guards, noting their Delforian features. Those from upper class breeding might have learned Xaxonese, but the rapidity of lavvey would probably render that knowledge wholly useless.

Healer and patient chattered for several moments about buildings, merchants, and life on the city streets. At first Nightfall believed she tested him, deliberately slipping into the deepest and quickest lavvey she could and making errors about Noshtillan to explore his knowledge. Nightfall parried each dodge with a deftness that came from long practice, correcting her mistakes without chiding or allowing her to lose face. It had too long been his job to know the ins and outs of every city on the continent, to evade his many enemies with a competence that made him seem more demon than human.

Over time, Nightfall regained his sense of touch, and the more normal pain that accompanied it seemed welcome. Gradually, that faded also, leaving the sensation of impression from Genevra’s hand and the clammy sweat that arose from long contact.

Soon, caught up in reminiscences, Genevra’s sham openness became sincere, a change Nightfall noticed at once and capitalized on with patient caution. He waited for a lull in the conversation to ask the important question, "Why do you do this?"

"This?" Genevra indicated their hands with a shifting of gaze. "I was born with the power." She released his hand. "There. Try that."

Nightfall opened and closed his hand several times, studying the location of the injury. His fingers moved easily, only slightly stiff from disuse. A long scar marred the palm. With time, he guessed, it would fade into the creases. "Vrin," he said, a mild and innocent exclamation of amazement.