Over the last two months, Nightfall had come to grips with the startling realization that he had, in fact, genuinely earned Edward’s trust. The extreme loyalty forced by Gilleran’s magic, the over-the-top allegiance that had started as a facetious game had flared to bizarre and unexpected reality. Edward’s effortless compassion had won over a demon who had once believed himself incapable of caring. Nightfall’s mother had never merited even the innate love and trust of a child for his caretaker. Only three people had ever found Nightfall deserving of friendship: Kelryn, Edward, and his childhood friend, Dyfrin. The latter, he now knew, had saved him from becoming the conscienceless killer he, along with the rest of the world, had once believed himself to be.
Though only nine years older, Dyfrin had become like a father, guiding Nightfall with kindness and words of gentle wisdom. A natal mind reader with ethics every bit as solid as Edward’s, Dyfrin had kept himself alive with odd jobs, entertaining sleights of hand, bets, and minor scams that preyed always on the greedy. He had harbored a soft spot as wide as a country for the needy and gave what little he had freely, without expectation of repayment or gratitude.
Until that bastard Gilleran killed him.
Nightfall’s mind went instantly to the image of his best friend writhing against the ultimate agony, the gruesome rending of body from soul, the harnessing of his talent to the will of a sorcerer. His mind sparked to a fiery anger hotter than hellfire. His vision blurred, his fingers clenched to bloodless fists, and his heartbeat became a frantic pounding. He shoved the thought away with an effort that seemed heroic. Contemplation of Dyfrin’s death always made him crazy.
Brandon Magebane reached for Nightfall’s arm. Still more accustomed to violence than comforting, Nightfall jerked away, wildly spinning to a crouch.
Brandon stared. “Sudian, are you all right?”
Nightfall waited until his heart fell back into its normal rhythm before trusting himself to speak. “I’m . . .” He skipped platitudes in favor of something with a grain of truth, “. . . very tired.” Not wanting to discuss his recent train of thought, he pressed back to the words that had brought him there. “King Edward won’t hold us responsible for Byroth’s death, but it’ll disappoint him to know we couldn’t protect an eight-year-old.”
Gatiwan shrugged. Brandon said nothing, clearly weighing his words so as not to increase what must have seemed like Nightfall’s feelings of guilt and responsibility.
“But it’s not Alyndar’s king I’m worried about,” Nightfall continued, though he knew Brandon had only mentioned Edward’s reaction as a joke. “We’re way outside Alyndarian jurisdiction.”
Apparently misinterpreting Nightfall’s distress, Gatiwan huffed out a laugh. “King Jolund won’t concern himself with the matter of a single death, and Duke Varsah gives the Magekillers wide discretion . . .”
Nightfall forced a smile. He did not worry for his current companions. Only a foolish ruler would alienate a man of the Magebane’s power, and Varsah was no fool. At the least, Brandon’s presence would keep most sorcerers from Schiz. Hearing the duke’s name aloud reminded Nightfall of the reason Edward and his entourage had come to the city, and the irritation that had haunted their two weeks of travel from Alyndar returned. Kelryn would have flayed him if he had fought too hard against something so important to Edward, but he wished the councillors and ministers had not given up so quickly. Handling Byroth seemed easy compared to the juggling act ahead of him.
Varsah’s greed and Edward’s damnable honor versus my wits.
He groaned. The odds of this battle seemed overwhelming, especially given his ignorance of noble’s law and protocol. He only hoped that, when the time came, he would find the words to rescue the king from a life-altering mistake.
Still misreading Nightfall’s discomfort, Brandon again reached for his arm, this time with slow caution. Nightfall forced himself to remain still as the long fingers closed around his forearm in a gesture of compassion. “Don’t you go worrying about what anyone thinks of what happened. We’ll handle the authorities. And we’ll never so much as mention your name.”
Though still not his concern, Nightfall assumed an expression of relief. These two men could do nothing to address his actual worries, and he did appreciate that they would keep the information to themselves. Anything that might be seen as an Alyndarian indiscretion became fodder for Duke Varsah, and Edward would undoubtedly feel responsible for any dubious action of his adviser. “Thank you. I’d like to go with you to speak with Byroth’s parents.”
“You’re sure—” Brandon started, forestalled by Nightfall’s raised hand.
“No fun, I understand. But I feel responsible.” Breaking the news of a young son’s death to stricken parents did not appeal to Nightfall, but he might never have another chance to put things right with Byroth’s father. “Then, I’d like to fall into anything reasonably soft that might serve as a bed.”
Gatiwan coughed deeply, then spat on the floorboards. “About that bed. You’re staying at the He-Ain’tHere?”
Nightfall nodded at information they clearly already knew.
Gatiwan grinned, his scar turning the expression wicked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for unreasonably hard.”
Nightfall wondered what Gatiwan would think if he knew some of the places Nightfall had slept. He yawned to emphasize a tiredness not wholly feigned. “Right now, I could sleep on a bed of nails.”
Chapter 2
A fool fears nothing and calls it courage.
A hero conquers what he fears.
—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend
N
IGHTFALL STEPPED into cool night air that carried the familiar scents of city nights. The last, acrid vestiges of cook fires still clung to the narrow roadways, tainted with thick meat smells, oils, and spices. A metallic tang mingled with the others, along with the odors of garbage, urine, and unwashed bodies that always clung to the alleyway debris. A quarter moon grazed the darkness, though clouds hid most of the stars and dawn had not yet added its pinkness to the sky. Insects hummed a steady chorus, pierced by irregular high-pitched chirping. In the distance, a polecat yipped like the cry of a lonesome baby.
Brandon and Gatiwan joined Nightfall in the roadway, closing the door on the grisly contents of the healer’s cottage. Its click roused Alyndar’s adviser to a realization just beyond understanding. Something felt wrong, out of place. Nightfall froze.
Brandon took the lead, heading into the threadlike roadways with the confidence of a man who owned the dark streets. It was a bearing Nightfall knew well, one that would put off all but the fiercest, most desperate predators or those with no concept of danger. A man who regularly fought sorcerers had little to fear from common thugs. Gatiwan glided after his companion, clearly no stranger to the perils of any city’s night. Neither seemed to notice the jarring suspicion that held Nightfall rigidly in place. Nevertheless, he did not dismiss his unease. He had learned to trust instincts that rarely failed him; and his reading of movement, sound, and shadow had always proved more acute than even the most cautious, the most hunted of other men.
“Let me do the talking this time,” Brandon said, a hint of warning in his voice.
Gatiwan spread his hands in innocent question. Clearly, his direct manner had gotten him into trouble in the past.
“Wait,” Nightfall said.
The other two men stopped and turned to look at him.
“Listen.”
Obediently, Brandon cocked his head, and Gatiwan went utterly still beside him.
Nightfall seized upon the silence to try to sift out what bothered him. He could still hear the up-and-down chorus of insects, the rare piercing cries of faraway animals. Every sense told him they were alone. Safe.
“I don’t hear anything,” Brandon whispered.
Gatiwan shook his head with a frown. “What is it?”
Nightfall hid his own discomfort behind an expression of intent focus. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe . . . nothing.”
Gatiwan made a gesture of dismissal, but Brandon took Nightfall’s concerns more seriously. “What did it sound like?”
Nightfall shook his head. He could not yet define what was bothering him, was not even sure why he had identified it as a noise. “Paranoia.” He allowed for a crooked smile. “My own.” He tilted his head toward the parents’ cottage, a strand of red-brown hair sliding across his brow.
Brandon led the way, but he shortened his steps and lost some of the cocky swagger of his earlier movements. That suited Nightfall as he and Gatiwan followed. Too much confidence might draw the meanest of the night folk, the ones who saw self-assurance as a challenge. The streets seemed much the same as Nightfall had known them. The character of Frihiat had had a distinct limp, slowing his walk and allowing a scrutiny of the streets that few of his other personae accorded him. Barrels lined the thoroughfares and alleyways, catching rainwater for drinking; and gutters guided the excess, along with wastes and refuse, toward the lower, northern edge of town. The shadows lay empty, the dimly lit crevices and puddled rooftops barren of thieves, street kids, and skulkers. Some of the homeless huddled in dens of piled thatch, shattered crates, and trash heaps; and Nightfall realized what had bothered him. No direct sound or movement had roused his suspicion. The normal dance of the night streets had gone off-kilter.
Nightfall froze in his tracks, his internal alarm growing more insistent. He found himself cringing without reason. Not long ago, he would have worried about Edward’s safety, and the magic of the oath-bond would have spurred him to desperate action.
Allowing harm to come to Edward would have shattered the oath-bond, and Nightfall’s soul would have become the property of Gilleran. Now, his heart hammered, anticipating the agony of the magic that no longer bound him to the prince-turned-king. The pain did not come, but the accompanying terror did. Danger in the city big enough to empty the streets of riffraff and send ruffians cowering into their holes likely involved the hasty, impulsively virtuous king of Alyndar.
It took Brandon and Gatiwan several paces to realize Nightfall had stopped. Both came to a halt and turned to face him.
“Coming?” Gatiwan said.
Nightfall shook his head.
Brandon tossed a nervous glance around the cottages, his usual arrogant courage lost. Few things disarmed a streetwise man more than mistrusting his own instincts, knowing something has gone amiss, yet finding himself unable to sense or calculate it. “What is it, Sudian?”
“I don’t know.” Nightfall continued to study the night, seeking solace in familiar rhythms. “But I have to get back to His Majesty.”
Gatiwan grunted his understanding, but the Magebane showed a better appreciation. Brandon had more experience with the natural wariness of the natally gifted. Gatiwan did not have to worry for his life and soul every moment of each and every day. “We’ll send along your condolences.”
Though driven to leave, Nightfall fulfilled his duty. “Condolences, yes.” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. He no longer felt a bit of remorse for the killing. “Be sure you tell the father that his wounding of the sorcerer rescued many other men’s sons and daughters.”
Brandon tapped his broad lips thoughtfully. “You mean because the sorcerer’s injuries made him too weak to take Byroth’s soul?”
Nightfall hoped the Magekillers would continue along that line of thought. They would believe that, had the sorcerer come at Nightfall and Byroth at full strength, he would have killed Alyndar’s adviser and taken the boy’s soul. Though no stranger to deadpan lying, Nightfall hedged. “The father will know what I mean. Be sure they both realize Byroth’s fate was sealed the moment he got his power. No one could have protected him—”
Gatiwan jumped in. “Brandon could have—”
“With that talent?” Nightfall frowned. “The Almighty Father could not have protected him, nor the sorcerer who obtained it, nor the one after him. The ability Byroth . . .” Exhaustion wore down Nightfall’s caution. He wanted to say, “obtained,” wished he could share the burden with his companions; but he dared not trust them. No matter the appropriateness of or the reason for the slaying, Nightfall would not willingly stand before the judgment of Duke Varsah nor place Byroth’s father in that position. As much as he had come to enjoy camaraderie, Nightfall could never risk giving another man, especially one like Varsah, the upper hand. He started over, “That ability Byroth
had
was one of the greatest curses anyone could bear.”
A light flashed through Brandon Magebane’s pale eyes. “I could have stopped hunting. The sorcerers would have come to me. On my territory.”
“Your territory; their terms.” Gatiwan made Nightfall’s point for him. “And what kind of life would Byroth have had? Living bait for the Magebane’s trap?”
Driven to check on Edward, Nightfall finished his piece. “And make sure the mother realizes that, though she lost a son, she still has the father . . . if she shows him some compassion.”
And forgiveness.
Without awaiting further comment or questioning, Nightfall fled into the night.
Amid the cloaking darkness and the cool night air, Nightfall felt at home in Schiz’ threadlike byways. Huddled alone in shadows was the only place he had ever felt safe, hidden from his mother’s bitterness, the cruelty of her clients, the predators who assaulted those lost children who did not learn how to cover fast enough. Then, a dark empty street had seemed like paradise. Now, he worried over the lack of rogues who normally owned the night alleys. Clearly, something troublesome had happened, dangerous enough that the people of the night feared to get involved or caught in the guardsmen’s retaliatory sweep.
It’s Ned. It has to be Ned.
For an instant, the past overwhelmed Nightfall. Every instinct screamed at him to run and hide with the other monsters. He was the demon of legend, a creature unworthy of love or friendship, a survivor who tied himself to nothing and nobody. These moments of self-hatred had come upon him less frequently over time. When they threatened to overwhelm him, an image of Dyfrin always came to mind: the heart-shaped face, the tangled mop of sand-colored hair, the soft dark eyes that pierced the fiercest, most desperate facade. Dyfrin the brother; Dyfrin the father; Dyfrin the friend, truer than truth itself. The same Dyfrin who had rescued Nightfall from a conscienceless, soulless existence in life often came to him in memory after death, to save his humanity again and again. Nightfall now realized the feelings he had for Dyfrin were the same as those for King Edward Nargol, ones he now recognized as genuine friendship. And, though Nightfall once scorned ties to other people as a weakness, he now found himself as powerless to resist them as the feeblest victim.
Ned, you guileless dizzard, what have you gotten yourself into this time?