Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall rose, assessing the situation. In the tavern in Noshtillan, the man Brandon had called Gatiwan had assured Nightfall that he had never seen the Magebane’s talent or his stones fail. Every time a sorcerer threw a spell, either Brandon or one of his followers with an empowered stone negated it. It now occurred to Nightfall that those who chose to hunt with Brandon probably had talents of their own they kept well-hidden. Who would have more cause to hate sorcerers than the natally gifted? With their powers curtailed and against several others with abilities, a weak sorcerer or one without a fast means of escape would fare poorly.

Having played both sides of many situations, Nightfall felt no pity for the sorcerers. Forever, they had preyed on the innocent, catching the talented as infants or children when possible, when they were an easy fight and less likely to understand the danger of displaying such abilities. Brandon and his people killed, but sorcerers tortured and enslaved. Those who lived by murder usually accepted that violence would end their existences as well. He had expected nothing different for himself, only wondered which way and which time the guard forces and bands of citizens would take him.

Nightfall considered the cause of the stone’s failure. He sifted the three plausible possibilities from an endless procession of unlikely ones. Either Brandon had lied, Nightfall had invoked the item incorrectly, or the oath-bond had proven stronger than the stone could handle. The first and last he could do nothing about, so he considered the second in more detail. The glow suggested he had, at least, begun the maneuver in the proper manner. Brandon had told him to concentrate on the source of the magic and Nightfall had taken that to mean the oath-bond itself, although the Magebane and his hunters, according to Gatiwan, directed their power at the sorcerer hurling the spell.

Again, Nightfall pressed his back to the wall, this time crouching so a fall would not prove as painful. His senses still indicated he was alone. Once more, he clutched the stone in his palm so tightly its roughness gouged his flesh. Red light bled through the lines where his fingers met. Nightfall directed his focus to Gilleran, recalling the sorcerer at the time he cast the spell, in vivid detail. The oath-bond remained at a level just above baseline, nagging that Nightfall was leaving Edward alone too long, no longer seeing his attempt to break it as a threat. Its quiescence seemed to mock Nightfall, to insinuate that his puny efforts at escape no longer bothered it. The red glow still bathed his fingers, without even a tinge of the blue Brandon claimed would indicate the stone was functioning.

Nightfall closed his eyes, concentrating on Gilleran until his fingers ached from being clenched too long. The stone remained red, dulling as his grip loosened. The oath-bond still throbbed a steady chorus, taunting with its vibrancy; and frustration lanced to sudden rage. Nightfall slammed the stone back into his pocket, seized by an urge to pound the wall until it crumbled or his fist became mangled and bloodied. He did not translate the image into action, forcing contentment with the thought alone. He guessed the agony he had suffered came from the oath-bond striking back when it feared he might escape it. Once it realized Brandon’s magic could not dispel it, it had settled back, uncaring. Apparently, Brandon had given him a faulty stone or else his ability only worked against magic in the casting. Perhaps, once set, the spell would no longer yield to the Magebane’s talent.

Nightfall headed back toward the main road, feeling all the more trapped for his failure. He channeled the need to violently dispel his rage into determination. That lesson of Dyfrin’s he had learned well: to wait out storms of emotion and act only with deliberate thought. Though he had heard of others who worked their scams or murders best in a wild fog of rage or a drug-induced frenzy, he considered them fools. He had done nothing blinded or driven by emotion, whether love or anger, that he did not regret. That was why he would not listen to Kelryn’s explanation, not until he felt certain he could hear without love lulling him into believing the absurd or lies goading him to slaughter.

Once on the cobbled pathway, Nightfall took only a raw steps toward the inn before turning aside in the direction of the duke’s citadel. Now, the need to land Prince Edward became even more the obsession. One way or another, he would thwart the oath-bond and extract payment from Chancellor Gilleran, even if it meant joining and guiding the Magekillers for the expedition. King Rikard’s fate would depend on his motivations for binding son and killer together.

These thoughts brought the oath-bond to a screeching crescendo that ached through Nightfall, claiming much of his rage. Harming Alyndar’s officials went against the tenets of the oath-bond every bit as strongly as leading the prince into danger. He had vowed he would cause no harm nor allow harm to come to any noble, servant, or guardian of the kingdom, especially the king, his chancellor and his sons; and the oath-bond would undoubtedly see to it he kept that promise as fully as those that bound him to Edward.

Nightfall turned his mind back to his landing strategy, and the oath-bond’s reminder slackened to normal. He paused to surreptitiously pluck a shartha flower from a cottage bed, then strode directly for the citadel. Once there, he kept to puddled areas of grayness, flitting from one to the next until he stood beneath that which he knew from years in Schiz to be Willafrida’s window. In the quiet darkness, he prepared to scale the wall, first appeasing the oath-bond with the understanding that he would not steal, kill, spy, or perform any other action it might consider too much the persona he had promised to abandon. The flower had closed for the night, but wisps of tubular petals showed through the sides, promising a fat, purple bloom come morning. The stem held the deep green hue of health.

Nightfall placed the stem in his mouth, careful not to bite down. He knew little about decorative plants, having sown only edible crops in his guise as Telwinar the farmer. However, his dealings with poisons and time on the streets eating whatever might lessen the rumbling hollow of his gut had taught him that those plants or insects that looked most beautiful protected themselves from predators with toxins. From experience, he knew shartha contained a mild poison that caused intestinal discomfort and vomiting.

Catching handholds and dropping his weight, Nightfall shimmied up the stone building. Colorful, silk curtains rippled in the balmy breezes, the shutters open to admit the warmth and no glass blocking his entrance. He assessed the room in a glance. Intricately carved furniture filled most of it, in matching patterns that depicted a long string of horses on every leg and ledge. The bedposts held wooden horse heads as knobs, and the canopy was a tapestry that depicted a girl in a dress composed of endless fabric sitting in a patch of blue wild flowers. Beneath it, a young woman in a sleeping gown fluffed the pillows and stepped daintily between the sheets. Straw-colored hair poked from beneath a frilly cap, and the lantern light displayed green-gray eyes and a flat, upturned nose. She sported a rich woman’s plump curves, overbalanced at the hips so that her buttocks seemed disproportionately wide. Though far from homely, her facial features held little attraction for Nightfall. He waited until she extinguished the lantern and snuggled beneath the covers.

Confident of his discretion, Nightfall did not wait for Willafrida to fall asleep before slipping into the room and placing the flower on the night table. Once finished, he crept back out the window, clambered swiftly to the ground, and headed back to the He-Ain’t-Here Tavern. As he walked, Nightfall considered excuses for his tardiness. Although he had spent less than an hour with Brandon Magebane, and the detour by the citadel had only cost him a few extra moments, he had obviously spent more time away from Edward than simply stripping tack and releasing horses into a pasture should take. He had settled on a story about having gotten stuck discussing steeds with a noble gentleman when he arrived at the thatch, stone, and mortar building. Its crookedly lettered sign bore a random shape that made it seem likely to have been a scrap from a larger project. Nightfall guessed Edward would understand and respect his decision to let a highborn talk, no matter how lengthy or dull the discourse.