Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The inn room in the Thirsty Dolphin seemed sparse but adequate. Little space separated the two sleeping pallets, though they seemed far preferable to the scattered hay on the floor that served as beds in smaller towns. A table in the opposite corner, near the door, stood firmly on squat legs. A tub across from it held all the basins and pitchers necessary to draw water and bathe, an uncommon luxury; and a drain hole opened onto conduits that carried the dirty water into the sewage gutters lining the larger streets. A chest of drawers, scarred with nicks and dents, lined the wall near the table. One drawer sagged open while Nightfall crouched on the floor, transferring garments from Prince Edward’s pack.

The door latch clicked.

Nightfall paused, a folded tunic in his hands, taking note of the sound. Whoever had come, presumably Edward, had made no attempt to do so quietly.

The door swung open, the hinges squeaking mildly. Prince Edward stepped through, closing the panel behind him. The bolt slammed into place.

The small, windowless room made Nightfall feel suffocated as tight places never had before Alyndar’s guards locked him in their dungeon. Fear flashed through him, suppressed only by the rationalization that he still had control. From the inside, opening the now-locked door required just one more movement. "Master, hello. Did you need something?"

"We have to talk, Sudian."

Nightfall lowered the garment to his lap, certain the topic involved a certain incident outside the Thirsty Dolphin’s stable. He fixed his gaze attentively on Edward.

"There’s a man here named Amadan Vanardin’s son. He says you held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him."

Nightfall said nothing, awaiting a direct question, though he knew an explanation was expected.

“Did you?” Edward pressed.

“Yes, Master. I did." Nightfall refolded the tunic and placed it atop the others in the drawer. He kept his manner and his tone matter-of-fact.

Prince Edward sighed. He sat on the edge of his pallet beneath the room’s only lantern, Light splashed white lines and golden glitters through his hair. His hands slid into his lap, and he stared at his fingers for several moments.

Nightfall drew a shirt from the pack, more uncomfortable with Edward’s silence than his lectures. The others had amused him. This quiet seemed abnormal.

Finally, Edward looked up. Nightfall thought he had gathered the necessary words; but, when the prince spoke, he used only one. “Why?”

Nightfall set his work aside. Though it seemed unnatural, he stepped into the semicircle of light. He plucked off his purple and silver shirt so Edward could clearly see the darkening bruise the merchant’s boot had gouged against his chest and the abrasions the road had slivered from his arm and side. In the light, he believed the prince could also tell where Amadan had struck him in the face.

Prince Edward winced, and Nightfall replaced his clothing. "Is that why?” the prince asked.

Though Nightfall knew the reason would probably suffice, he found a better one. "No. He also pounded on the stable boy. Master, I only did what you would have done. I know you believe in defending the downtrodden. You wouldn’t have let him hurt that boy."

"I wouldn’t," Prince Edward admitted. He studied Nightfall for some time before finishing. “But I’m a prince. I can do that. I can’t let my servant threatening a highborn’s life go unpunished.”

Nightfall froze, believing he had finally found a transgression that would earn him Edward’s wrath. Magic or none, he would not stand still for any man to batter him. The defiance raised a pounding wave of nausea and agony from the oath-bond that told him he would. Survival took precedence over any need to dodge pain or humiliation. Vengeance, if necessary, could come later. What he could not avoid, Nightfall would take bravely, but he would see to it that the prince suffered as much for the pain. From experience, Nightfall knew that, for Edward, that meant a direct attack to the conscience, "I understand. Beat me however for as long as you feel it’s necessary." Kneeling, he lowered his head, fighting down every instinct that told him to close his defenses.

"Beat you?" Edward’s missing strength returned and flared to annoyance. "I’m not going to beat you." He shivered distastefully at the thought. "What’s that going to teach you except more violence?"

Nightfall had to concede that Prince Edward had a point, although he had already received all the lessons he ever needed about brutality. And learned them well.

Edward pointed at Nightfall’s pallet. “Sit."

Obediently, Nightfall rose and did so.

"We’re going to discuss and memorize the seventeen rules of etiquette. The long version." Edward heaved a sigh. Apparently, he had found a topic tedious even to himself. "By the time I got through talking to Amadan Vanardin’s son, I almost put a knife to his throat myself. The lesson might teach us both some restraint." He launched into the session. "When addressed by a man of superior station…”

Nightfall almost wished he had gotten beaten instead.

Nightfall slept through Prince Edward’s dinner in the common room of the Thirsty Dolphin. His conversation with Finndmer had kept him awake much of the previous night, and he knew he would need the wee morning hours to begin the many gambles and schemes taking shape in his mind. A multitude of possibilities paraded through his thoughts, but he concentrated hardest on the situations chance and consideration had given him opportunity to set up in advance. Dyfrin had often claimed that serendipity came to everyone daily; a wise man learned to turn small details to his advantage. And Nightfall knew organizing all of that would prove easier while the gentle and honest prince lay safely asleep.

Prince Edward returned around midnight, changing into his sleeping gown in the dark, and crept quietly into his bed. Awakened as always by movement, Nightfall lay in silence and feigned sleep, guessing the time by feel alone. The lack of a window made cues from the sky and moon impossible, but Nightfall had become a reasonably good judge of interval, even asleep. He fell into a shallow half-drowse, allowing himself some extra rest and the prince to sink into unbreakable slumber. Then, as solid snores filled the room with echoes, he slipped out, padded down the hallway, and glided through the entryway into the common room.

Nightfall assessed the patrons at once. Five local youths flung darts and daggers at gashed and battered cork targets painted in concentric circles. They based their game at a nearby table, mugs and bowls of beer lined up for an easy sip between turns. Their sport intrigued Nightfall, though the stakes seemed too low to bother with. Eventually, he might find need to pit his dagger-throwing abilities against others for significant winnings. Until then, it made no sense to reveal, or even give clues to, his skill.

Three merchants sat at a table near the bar, their simple but well-tailored dress revealing them as wealthy Grifnalians or Ivralians. These seemed more interesting, though Nightfall knew they would probably prove slow to warm to a stranger and shrewd with their money. Still, their decision to attend a rowdy tavern this late suggested some daring and curiosity about the wilder side of Trillium. Two tables from them sat a pair of local hoodlums eying the sparse crowd with the same attention as Nightfall. The remainder of the patrons consisted of fifteen middle-aged Trillian men in groups of two to four.