Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall recalled a night when the wind howled, flinging hail hard enough to sting welts across exposed flesh. He had huddled amid stored hay in a farmer’s loft, the warmth of animal presences rescuing him from a storm that had taken less experienced children and beggars permanently from the streets. He ate well, having stolen his meal from one of the many feasts in honor of the firstborn child of the aging baron of Schiz. He remembered contemplating the irony beneath the sounds of hail hammering the roof and the soft conversations of other homeless who chose the barn as their refuge. He did not seek their company. Had those below discovered him, they would have attempted to take his food and found him far more competent at defending it than his age implied. The rich celebrated the birth of a child by gorging on and wasting food while the poor desperately hunted for scraps to sustain one more.

Nightfall knew that serving Edward’s best interests meant more than just clinging to the prince’s side. He had an obligation to get the prince landed, and that would require more time gleaning information. He did not wholly trust Kelryn, but his emotions and the oath-bond goaded him to believe her three promises at least. It seemed unlikely that Ritworth would attack again so soon, wounded and fatigued from his ordeal. So far, Nightfall’s attempts to ply his usual sources of information had resulted in disaster: suspicion, deceit, and even outright violence. He could no longer count on the underground to supply him, but the knowledge he considered now did not require shady sources. Anyone with idle time to gossip might know what age the baron’s daughter had attained and whether she had already pledged herself to marriage. Nightfall’s memory suggested she and Edward would come close enough in years to raise no questions with their union, and he believed an event as huge as the wedding of a baron’s daughter would have reached his attention. Now, all he needed to do was discover the details and start the process.

If only I could arrange for him to see her naked. Nightfall smiled at the thought, recalling Edward’s overreaction to Kelryn in her undergarments. He headed for the nearest bar.

Prince Edward, Nightfall, and Kelryn rode quietly from Noshtillan the following morning. It seemed best to foil Ritworth as much as possible by moving as often as they could. So, Edward purchased a third horse, a handsome black. Its carriage and glossy coat suited the prince, and Nightfall approved of its color and training. Kelryn rode the chestnut; the paucity of supplies obviated the need for a pack horse. They strapped gear behind each saddle, and the spade rode atop the prince’s personals.

As they journeyed along the earthen roadway between Noshtillan and her sister cities, Nightfall left Kelryn and Edward to their happy chatter. To his relief, they talked about the prince’s ideals rather than about himself or his past, a topic he hoped they had exhausted. When Edward’s ramblings glided into their usual impossible idealism, Kelryn gently bumped the conversation back to reality. Nightfall appreciated her efforts grudgingly, wishing he had her knack for diverting discussion without appearing to contradict or question.

Fatigue enclosed Nightfall’s thoughts like a fog, making new ideas nearly impossible. Instead, he ran through the information he had obtained the previous night. Duchess-heir Willafrida had turned twenty that past winter, still without a husband. The reasons given for her lack of a spouse had been manyfold, and Nightfall had not yet quite decided which to believe. Several men stated that her common looks and plump, small-breasted figure had sent highborn men searching elsewhere. Others, like Nightfall, believed those who shopped for appearances shallow enough to court her for money alone. Most of these blamed her vanity or a personality that seemed to border on silly, the behavior that served some beautiful women well, those who relied on their looks and never bothered with social graces. One of the serving maids insisted that the duchess-heir’s father had become so protective of his only daughter that he screened potential suitors to a ridiculous extreme.

Questioning had also brought forth details about a handful of suitors, the most promising a wealthy goldsmith called Hoson. Depending on whom he chose to believe, the couple had sustained an off and on relationship for two years, they were madly in love, or they had been spotted together periodically. In all cases, however, his name came up before that of any other potential future baron.

They continued toward Schiz amid a light drizzle, the clop of hooves a soothing, steady beat beneath Kelryn’s and Edward’s conversation. Until he visited the bar in Noshtillan, Nightfall had forgotten how quickly rumors spread in the south. Already, several people had recognized him as the squire of the prince attacked by a sorcerer. He had had to suffer through a dozen folk remedies for thwarting magic, many of which were the same as those he had heard homewomen used to protect their families from the demon, Nightfall. Yet one significant possibility had come even from that distraction. A travel-stained warrior alone in the corner of the bar had mentioned a friend who lived in Schiz. Called Brandon Magebane, the Schizian had proclaimed a personal crusade against users of magic and their murders. Apparently, he had a natal talent he did not bother to hide, one that allowed him to disenchant spells and, on rare occasions, to place this same power into objects for others to use. According to the traveler, the Magebane would spend a year or two concentrating his ability into stones or coins, enough to give his companions each a few defenses. Then, they would actively hunt a sorcerer.

That conversation preoccupied Nightfall as they headed toward the country of Schiz. Brandon’s Noshtillian friend had just returned from such a venture, this one unsuccessful. It meant the Magebane’s companions had used their special stones. From experience, Nightfall knew that natal talents used on oneself cost little in time or effort, just a moment of thought. Apparently, however, those who could direct their abilities against others or into items required more elaborate procedures, limited by fatigue. It might take two months or longer for Brandon to construct another of his disenchanting items, but the man Nightfall met in Noshtillan believed his partner might still have one or two stones left over from the previous pursuit. He had suggested Nightfall might purchase those remaining to help protect his master.

At the time and now, Nightfall’s thoughts sprang off in a different direction. If he could attain one of those precious, perfect stones, he could use it to free himself from the oath-bond. He smiled, the expression seeming unnatural through all the pain, physical and emotional, he had suffered or inflicted in the last few days. Free, he could start his life over, unburdened by the responsibility of guarding and directing an idealist in a venal world who flaunted money in front of thieves and begged the company of traitors Free, he could leave Sudian and the enemy sorcerer behind, as dead as his many personae. Free, he could become someone else again. Who, he did not know nor what trade he would take. He felt certain only that he had no wish to return to what he had once been.

This consideration followed him through the day of travel that brought them to the duke’s city of Schiz. Narrow streets glazed with evening gray forced Nightfall to ride behind his master and their companion, and the horse traffic drove pedestrians to the storefronts. Nightfall chose the cheaper of Schiz’ two inns for its proximity to the goldsmith’s shop, though his reasons seemed unclear even to himself. Once free, he no longer needed to work at landing Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, and the information gleaned to accomplish that mission no longer mattered. Once again, he would completely rewrite his obligations and loyalties, this time in any manner he chose. First, he believed, he would locate Dyfrin and repay a long overdue debt of gratitude to the only person in his life who had helped him for no other reason than kindness and no thought of reward.