Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Brandon’s brows rose, and he seemed pleased by the answer. "How could I deny a stone that might bring double good: slaughter a sorcerer and save a prince?" His eyebrows returned to their normal contour, then beetled lower. "How confident do you feel about handling this Ritworth? Might it not prove better to wait a year and let me and the Magekillers handle him?"

Nightfall shook his head vigorously, seeing his last chance at freedom slipping away. "We’ve injured him twice, and he’s hurt us. I believe it’s an equal match. One small, unexpected object could make all the difference. I don’t think we can hold out for a year." In three months, I’ll become a tiny, suffering piece of another sorcerer, if this one doesn’t catch me first.

Brandon frowned, the expression making his lips seem huge. He tapped a finger against their puffiness. "Very well, Sudian. Here." He pulled what appeared to be a common street stone from his pocket and offered it to Nightfall. "When you need it, squeeze it. It’ll glow red. Concentrate on the source of the magic. When the stone turns blue, it’s working. Once finished, it goes back to gray. It works only one time."

“Thank you." Nightfall took the stone but kept it in his hand. “Now what do I owe you?"

Brandon rose, dismissing the question with a wave. "It costs me nothing but a delay in my next hunt." Again he scanned Nightfall’s reaction, apparently trying to elicit guilt should the squire take the stone without feeling reasonably certain it would give him the edge he needed.

To his surprise, Nightfall did know a mild stab of remorse. He had spoken only truth, yet he had deceived since he had no plans to use the item directly against Ritworth. Still, he had not lied completely. Once free of the terms of the oath-bond, many more means of fighting or running from the Iceman would become open to him, so it would give him the edge he needed. He only hoped it would prove enough. As free as the Iceman had been with the ice spell, Nightfall suspected it was a recent addition in small danger of becoming lost to a weakening soul-bond, at least in the near future. He put the stone in his pocket and rose. "Thank you," he repeated. "Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you in exchange?"

"Nothing is necessary.” Brandon headed for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. "Someday, Sudian, when your problem’s handled, you’ll come on a hunt with us?”

"Of course," Nightfall promised without an iota of sincerity. If I ever go completely insane. He stepped out into the night amid the mingled perfume of the flowers, and Brandon Magebane closed the door behind him.

The urge to use the gem immediately seized Nightfall, but he had learned much patience researching situations, targets, and victims. To invoke the stored talent this near its creator would risk the Magebane’s wrath. Instead, he made no gesture toward the stone at all, just headed down the road back in the direction he had come. Many thoughts swirled through his mind, goading him to question situations that would have seemed obvious in the past. A year ago, he would have taken Brandon’s stone and laughed at the Magebane’s foolishness at not demanding payment. Or, perhaps, he would have considered all possible secondary reasons for Brandon to have refused money, from the conviction that he had placed Nightfall in his debt to the possibility the stone had other purposes than that stated.

Now, Nightfall felt the obligation he would once have glibly discarded. He had always appreciated the fear, suspicion, and danger that forced sorcerers to remain loners and not communicate with one another. He also understood the need for most of those cursed with a natal talent to remain equally isolated; the fewer who knew about their ability, the less likely a sorcerer would discover it. Yet, if he used the example of the Healer in Delfor, not all chose the same strategy as himself. Brandon Magebane had a point Nightfall could not help but consider. Why shouldn’t the gifted band together against sorcerers? Considered in that context, it made perfect sense. The natally talented gained no advantage from harming one another, as sorcerers did, so they could work in teams without challenge. By pooling resources, abilities, and knowledge, they might drive away or destroy enough sorcerers to make life safe for them again. Nightfall had a natal talent. He gained more peace every time Brandon’s Magekillers hunted. Perhaps, someday, he would pay back that favor.

Unconsciously, Nightfall kneaded the stone through the fabric of his tunic. Nothing could compare with the freedom it would buy him, a life to start over without ties or bonds to fools; and, more importantly, without a wizard controlling his soul. Yet the responsibilities would not wholly disappear. Nightfall had thought long and hard about his relationship with Edward, had already promised himself he would either see the landing through or escort him safely home. He had not dragged the gentle, young innocent to the far side of the continent to abandon him to every schemer who saw silver in theft, scam, or kidnapping. Whatever the boy’s father had forced Nightfall to do by magic did not reflect on Edward. The prince deserved to see the godly side, not the demon side, of a squire he had treated well. And Nightfall found satisfaction in the consternation it would cost King Rikard and Gilleran to receive back the idealist unharmed with no way to catch or follow the master criminal they had once held prisoner. Let them sweat in their beds every night wondering when the knife will come.

Nightfall slipped from the main pathway into a short, black alleyway between a house marked as the tailor’s and another that bore no distinguishing features. It seemed strange to moralize, especially over a spoiled prince and a situation that had started as a torture. Yet when acting as other than Nightfall, he had considered the right path on a daily basis. Those nights he handled the evil needs and desires of his demon side left him free to become more prudent at other times and in other guise.

Nightfall pressed his back against the tailor’s home, concentrating on the area around him, though the Magebane’s gift and the reprieve it promised struggled to usurp all other thought. His ears and eyes told him that no one had come close enough to intrude on his moment. He was alone. Pulling the stone from his pocket, he clasped it tightly into his palm. It felt warm, though whether from some inherent magic or from absorbing the heat of his grasp, he could not guess. A red glow leeched through the cracks between his fingers, and Nightfall knew a tingle of joy. Apparently, Brandon Magebane was not a hoax or a crazy but all that he claimed. As instructed, Nightfall concentrated on the oath-bond.

Sudden pain exploded through Nightfall, and he lost all control of his limbs. He collapsed, doubling over, trying to escape agony that came wholly from within. He clung to his last abstraction, the oath-bond, little caring whether the anguish came from the stone or from the death throes of the magic. He would not lose the focus of the Magebane’s gift. Nightfall managed to heave to his hands and knees, realizing as he did that the pain was fading. Now, he could separate the faint tremor of Brandon’s talent from the too familiar prickle of the oath-bond. The latter had caused the pain and also chosen to quiet again. Apparently, it had risen against the threat and conquered. From all he had heard, the stone should have worked immediately, yet the oath-bond remained.

Nightfall froze, failure a shock and a terror at once. He kept calm, working through the problem logically, surmising several possible explanations. He hoped the oath-bond had gone, its buzz his imagination or an aftereffect that might gradually disappear. He tested it cautiously, picturing himself never returning to Prince Edward. He felt no reprisal. Excitement built; it seemed he truly had become free. That realization caused him to consider the prospect of abandoning Edward more seriously. The moment he did, the oath-bond leapt to life, spearing a warning through his chest that drove him to miss a breath. The stone’s power had misfired, though whether from technicality or weakness, Nightfall did not know.