The Return of Nightfall (26 page)

While Nightfall considered details of his encounters with the former chancellor in a whole new light, he could practically hear the nobles’ thoughts clicking into place around him. Only then, in the midst of the total silence following his pronouncement, did he realize his mistake. He did not worry that they might track Dyfrin down and realize only eight years separated them in age. His cleaned up appearance made him look a decade younger. He supposed he might have to deal with the people who had known Dyfrin yet had never met his son or heard him speak of having one. But the councillors pounced on something far more important to them.

“So that’s why you attacked the sorcerer.” Though clearly a thought, Sir Tenneth Kentaries spoke it loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

The baron added, “It had nothing to do with saving Ned’s life.”

The wrong things continued to enter conversations around the room. “He only took the steward’s job to get near the sorcerer who killed his father.”

Nightfall shook his head. “No, no. That’s not right.”

His protestations became lost beneath the rumble of speculation. Nightfall stopped speaking. He saw no reason to go on. No one would listen to what he had to say. In their minds, they had already convicted him, seeking only some way to invalidate his single act of selfless courage. He had hated Gilleran, and not only for what the bastard had inflicted on Dyfrin. But Nightfall had attacked the sorcerer to rescue Edward’s life. The oath-bond had no longer constrained him at that time. He could have run without sacrifice, leaving Edward to face the sorcerer alone. Instead, Nightfall had risked his own life, fully intending to sacrifice it, to save his liege who had also become his friend.

General Simont pounded a fist against the wall with a mighty crash that quieted the room again. “Sudian, the evidence presented by Schiz is overwhelming. Your inability to counteract it is telling, and your explanation has overcome the last obstacle of doubt. Therefore . . .”

The stillness became a deadly silence.

“. . . we, the High Council, hereby sentence you . . .”

Sentence me?
Nightfall could scarcely believe he had gotten away with dozens of crimes to get imprisoned for absolutely nothing.

“. . . to the punishment due all traitors: execution. The method to be decided—”

Nightfall fixated on the word.
Execution!
He froze. King Rikard had claimed to pardon him for every crime worthy of such a sentence. He measured the distance to the door again, then scanned the windowless room for other escape.

“Stop right there!” Volkmier’s voice rose over the hush. “What craziness is this?”

Simont’s pronouncement dropped to a directed growl. “You’re out of line, Captain.”

Volkmier ignored the chastisement. Though shorter and squatter, the chief of prison guards carried a frame as packed with muscle as Simont’s own and commanded nearly as much respect. “Sudian is the chancellor. In the king’s absence, that makes him Alyndar’s ruler. Killing him is . . . it’s . . .” He sputtered. “For all intents and purposes that’s
regicide,
the ultimate treason. You have no right . . .”

“This gives us the right!” The admiral jerked open a drawer in the table, dug out an enormous book, and slapped it to the tabletop with a thunderous bang. “Alyndarian law itself.” He flopped the book open to a marked page and began to read “. . . in the event the king is killed, missing, or incapacitated leaving no blooded heir on the throne . . .” Nikolei mumbled past the parts that did not apply to the situation. “. . . the Council is granted overriding discretion in all matters of judgment provided it has the full consent of the High Council and a majority vote of the Council in Full.” He looked up from the book but did not close it, allowing anyone who wished to see the proviso access.

The crowd shifted as a few became curious enough to look.

Captain Volkmier stood in place with his mouth open. It took several moments before words emerged. “I don’t recall any vote of the Council in Full on this matter.”

“The High Council counts two votes each,” the baron explained. “That’s ten. We only needed two more votes, and we had no trouble finding them.” He looked out over the mass of landowners, royal guardsmen, and titled gentry. “But I’m willing to take a formal vote, if you insist.”

Nightfall said nothing as he edged toward the door. The less attention he drew to himself, the more likely he could escape unnoticed.

“I insist,” Volkmier said.

“Very well.” The baron retook his seat, followed by the remainder of the High Council. Though General Simont still held the head seat, Baron Elliat took over the proceedings. “All those in favor of the sentencing, raise your right hand and chant ‘aye.’ ”

A sea of hands flew up amid a chorus of “ayes.”

“Opposed, raise the left and chant ‘nay.’ ”

The silence sounded equally deafening. It seemed as if even the chief of the prison guards had forsaken Nightfall.

“Seize the traitor!” someone shouted.

Nightfall made a wild leap for the door, caught the latch, and yanked. Heavy as pooled lead, the door jerked opened crookedly. The guards stationed outside scrambled to attention as Nightfall dropped his weight and dove through the crack.

A sea of humanity flung itself at him. One crashed against his shoulder blades, driving his meager weight to the floor. More afraid to reveal his talent than of death, Nightfall forced his mass back to normal as arms buffeted him from every direction. A hand clamped on his ankle. He kicked, scoring a solid hit, but it delayed him enough to allow a heap of men to plunge down on him simultaneously. Blinded, hearing muffled by piled clothing, nostrils thick with the reek of stale sweat, he slipped from beneath the pile as the men gouged and grabbed at one another. A final twist freed him. Crouched low, he surveyed his position, only to find the masses had confused his bearings. He had come out in the same room he had just escaped, only now his pursuers lay mostly behind him.

The knights and the baron stood beside the strategy table. A few of the Council members stood in various positions around the room. The tangled mass of bodies in the doorway blocked the exit, only just beginning to sort itself out. Nightfall saw only one way out, over the heads of the cluster. Climbing them would leave him wallowing in the heap. Instead, he sprang to the tabletop, scattering papers beneath his feet and sending the book sliding.

General Simont cursed and jumped after Nightfall, remarkably quick for such a large man. He made a nimble grab that probably would have snared Nightfall had the giant not slammed his head against the hanging candelabra. Nightfall caught the swinging holder as lit candles plunged to the table around the general. Flinging his body backward, Nightfall added to the momentum, then dropped his weight. The candelabra surged forward. Nightfall released his grip, flying over the loosening knot of men in the doorway, hit the floor headfirst, and tucked into a graceful roll. He scrambled to his feet, restoring his mass as he did so, only to find a boot thrust suddenly between his legs. A sudden move to the side only partially saved him. He stumbled a half step rather than falling, but that took him over the edge of the upper stair.

Nightfall tumbled down the steps in an uncontrollable frenzy, desperately adjusting his weight across a spectrum to try to find something to slow his descent and decrease the growing collection of bruises the edges stamped across his flesh. Pain flashed through his skull. The world juggled past in dizzying spirals. Up and down, directions became muddled and unrecognizable concepts. Then, he crashed to a landing with a spine-jarring force that left him breathless and helplessly sprawled, one leg twisted through the railing.
Get up!
he told himself.
Get up, or you and Ned are both dead.

Nightfall managed to limp to legs feeling raw and deeply battered, the air above him filled with shouts. Then, a familiar voice wafted to him from below. “Don’t move, Sudian. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

Nightfall looked at the landing below him, where Volkmier stood with a drawn crossbow, the bolt aimed directly at his chest. He knew the captain’s damnable aim too well to resist. He froze.

The brigade above charged down the stairs toward Nightfall, careful to keep their feet. They had seen the fall he had taken, and no one wanted to repeat it.

Nightfall kept his eyes locked on the captain, obeying his command to the letter. It occurred to him suddenly he had absolutely nothing to lose. Whether Volkmier shot him, or the mob executed him, he was just as dead.

Nightfall stiffened.

“Be still!” Volkmier reminded.

Nightfall cursed himself for giving even a hint of his next move away. Without a word or other warning, he drove up his weight and flung himself at Volkmier.

Volkmier swore viciously. The string of the crossbow twanged, and agony speared Nightfall’s chest. His left arm went numb. His consciousness wavered, and he lost control even of his talent. He landed on the chief of the prison guards, collapsing him to the landing. Both men toppled. Nightfall could feel himself falling, his head filled with distant buzzing, his eyes registering only a blank tan haze interrupted by spots and squiggles.

Then, silent blackness overtook him completely.

Chapter 10

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

“I KNOW WHO you are.”

The vaguely familiar voice dragged Nightfall from the black vacuum of unconsciousness to painful self-awareness. The outline of his body buzzed into focus first, and agony speared the upper left side of his chest.
Am I dead?
For a moment, he could not comprehend the absurdity of his question.

“I know who you are,
Nightfall.
”

That brought Nightfall fully to his senses. He opened his eyes to a stone-walled room painted a garish blue. He lay on a mound of blanketed straw, near an empty chamber pot. A set of dull, gray bars cut the room into halves. On the other side, Volkmier crouched on a seat carved into the wall, dressed in his standard working lavender-and-gray uniform. Beyond him, the only door was closed, surely bolted from the outside. A shuttered window suggested they occupied a room on one of the three lowest floors, though not the dungeon which lay underground. The middle floors held glass panes and the upper ones nothing at all.

“I’ve suspected it since your meeting with King Rikard,” Volkmier continued. “But I didn’t know for sure until I watched you battle your way through the Council. I never forget the way a man moves.”

Nightfall believed him. He lived only because the bolt had missed his heart, though probably not by much. It had passed slightly to the left and high, cutting through the muscle where his chest met his shoulder. Someone had carefully bandaged the wound, and his left arm rested in a gently knotted and surprisingly clean sling. He sat up and faced the guard, ascertaining at the same time that they were alone. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“I missed.”

It was not the answer Nightfall wanted. “You don’t miss.”

Volkmier frowned. “When my enemy does something so unexpected, so against his own survival, even I can be caught off guard. And I do miss. Even the commander of the prison guards, even the legendary demon, makes the occasional mistake.”

Nightfall had to admit he had made plenty, all of them, it seemed, in the last six months. Afraid to take his eyes off the chief of the prison guards, he tested the muscles of his shoulder. The pain went beyond anything physical he had known before, a deeply seated ache screaming for his full attention. “So what form of slow humiliating execution do I have to look forward to?”

“None.” Volkmier hopped from his crevice to the floor, carefully stretching each leg.

Relief flooded Nightfall. “I’ve been reprieved?”

“You’re going to escape.”

Nightfall’s forehead creased. “I am?” He forced himself not to look at the cell door. The last time Alyndar had imprisoned him knowing his identity, they had used three separate locks, each with its own key. They had also stripped him of anything he could use to open them. Instead, he met Volkmier’s gaze. The quick blue eyes held desperation and need.

“You’re the only one I know who can find King Edward. The only one who might have the skill to bring him safely home.”

Nightfall stared, shocked speechless.

Volkmier continued to study Nightfall, from safely beyond his reach. The sword at his belt might make a formidable weapon should Nightfall manage to snatch it through the bars.

When the captain said nothing, Nightfall forced words between his teeth. “You know who I am.”

“I know—” Volkmier paused to clear his throat. “I know King Rikard trusted you, and he was a man of great wisdom with an uncanny understanding of people.”

“King Rikard also trusted Gilleran.” Nightfall could have slapped himself.
Why in the Holy Father’s darkest hell am I trying to talk him out of letting me live?

“Yes,” Volkmier admitted, rocking back on his heels. “And for over two decades, the wizard served him well, if not always . . . pleasantly. The arrangement suited them both. The king kept Gilleran safe from other sorcerers, and his vile chancellor kept ill wishers off-balance and used his magic for the good of Alyndar.” Volkmier pursed his lips, shook his head. “Then, Gilleran gained some additional powers that gave him the strength and the confidence to seek the throne itself.”

“He killed another powerful sorcerer.” Nightfall had learned it from Kelryn, who had witnessed the attack. Gilleran had fortuitously rescued her from Ritworth the Iceman, only to bind her to his bidding moments later. Both sorcerers had tried to kill Nightfall in their time, and both had nearly succeeded. “And took control of all of his spells as well.”