The Return of Nightfall (3 page)

Nightfall continued to stare. He had never heard Kelryn use so many long words nor speak so expressively. Now twenty-four, she had spent close to half of her life in a dance hall. “But I know absolutely nothing about anything that happens in court. Ned has good advisers there already, men who served his father and grandfa ther. What could I possibly add?”

“Entertainment at the very least.” Kelryn finally smiled.

Nightfall rose and looked longingly toward the window. He wanted one more chance to assure himself he could make a quick escape if it became necessary, without an assault of memory mangling his concentration.“I don’t recall agreeing to become a jester.” Nightfall had become competent in all the things that mattered to him; his survival had depended upon it. If arrogant, pretentious highborns laughed at him, he might not manage to keep himself from slicing up their pretty, powdered faces.

Kelryn shifted position, rustling the ticking. “Then, perhaps it’s common sense you can add to the proceedings. As I recall, Ned said you could help him judge the masses because you have real knowledge of their plights.”

“I’m not ready . . .” Nightfall started slowly, knowing the tired excuse would not work on Kelryn.

“If you can climb a tower, you’re ready for court.” Kelryn added pointedly, “And you know you really shouldn’t be doing it at all. The nobles are already questioning your past. You don’t need to supply them with the sling stones and arrows.”

“I know.” Nightfall lowered his head, wondering if he might have made the biggest mistake of his life. It was the dream of every commoner to live in a palace, waited upon by diligent servants and trusted by the king. Yet, now that he had those luxuries, Nightfall could not help worrying about their price. “But . . .” He turned, giving Kelryn a pleading look. “Have you ever sat through court?”

“Many times.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

Nightfall fell silent, staring, trying to make sense of what he heard. “You . . . you understand . . . what . . . ?”

“Just because I’m lowborn and a woman doesn’t mean I can’t understand—”

Nightfall waved a dismissive hand. “I just meant the couple of times I went, I didn’t get half of what they were saying. Bores me to a stupor.” He became painfully honest, the way he could be only with Kelryn. She was the sole one he had ever told about his other persona and his natal talent. When King Edward’s father had captured him in the guise of Marak the Nemixite sailor, the very identity under which Kelryn had known him, Nightfall had wrongly believed her his betrayer. “I can’t stand it, Kelryn. If that’s what I committed myself to, I’d rather go back to starving in the streets.”

Kelryn rose and caught him into the embrace she had earlier shunned. Her expression revealed only compassion, but he read a hint of alarm in her eyes. “Sudian, it’s not that bad. After a week or so, it all starts to make perfect sense. The local nobles can get preoccupied with some strange and trivial matters, but the politics between kingdoms is fascinating.” She actually sounded excited. “And you have as much knowledge as anyone when it comes to the commoners, more than most.”

Nightfall doubted even that. “I still don’t understand what Ned needs me for.”

Kelryn spoke into his ear, her body warm and her hair like velvet against his cheek. “The king finds comfort in your presence. He wants you in his court to advise him. Isn’t that better than wanting you in his court on charges of murder and mayhem?”

Kelryn’s closeness was driving Nightfall to distraction.

“Right now,” she murmured as if divulging sexual secrets, “Ned is headed for a conference. Fourth floor, East Tower. He asked for you specifically. He says he needs you.”

“And I need you.” Nightfall leaned in to kiss her, and his hands slid along her sides toward her breasts.

Kelryn raised her chin and caught his hands before they reached their destination. “If you’re not well enough to help a friend, then you’re not well enough to have me either.”

Nightfall groaned but did not argue. His yearning for her was painful. “Fourth floor, East Tower?”

Kelryn squeezed his fingers. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“To torture me some more?”

“No, Sudian.” Kelryn performed an alluring little dance, ending with a curtsy. “To
please
you, my lord.”

Nightfall could not have scrambled out the door any faster.

 

Nightfall had no trouble finding the proper room. Guards stood at parade-ground attention in front of the doors, and a variety of noble men and women milled outside, clearly wishing they could join the secret discussion. Though he ignored them, Nightfall noticed them all. He could not have done otherwise. No matter how preoccupied he appeared, his senses remained instinctively alert and attuned to every movement around him. His lifestyle had required him to remember every word uttered in his presence, to recognize every face and the guise in which he saw it, but mostly to take immediate notice of any action that might signify a threat. Now, nothing jarred his senses enough to concern him, though he knew they all visually followed his walk to the door. The guards stepped aside to allow him entry. Nightfall tripped the latch and pulled the door open.

An unfamiliar voice wafted into the hallway, full of pathos and frustration, “But, Sire, it’s just not done—”

Nightfall’s entrance interrupted the discussion, and the assembly fell into instant silence as every eye found him.

Discovering that the room was much more crowded than he expected, Nightfall hesitated in the doorway, still bracing it open a crack that allowed the mob on the landing to stare at the interrupted proceedings. A large table took up most of the space, and well-dressed and -coiffed men filled all of the seats around it. Others, mostly guardsmen, crouched, sat, or stood on the periphery. Nightfall knew several by name and many others by brief association, but none well. He felt more comfortable among Alyndar’s staff and servants, though his presence clearly unnerved them. Since the day Edward had promoted him from squire to adviser, Alyndar’s lowest class no longer considered Nightfall one of them. The maids presented him with curtsies, and the pages addressed him as “sir” or “my lord.”

Nightfall’s gaze went automatically to the most dangerous man in the room, at least in his assessment. Though not the largest warrior present, Chief of Prison Guards Volkmier stood out from the rest. Unlike the other titled commanders, he stood among the elite guards rather than sitting at the table, and he wore gray and lavender to the others’ purple and silver. A compact redhead with a no-nonsense bearing, Volkmier had a history with Nightfall he would rather forget. Four times, they had clashed, twice in Nightfall guise and twice as Sudian; Volkmier had won every time. Bull-muscled, yet swift, cool, and competent, the chief of the prison guards had proved sharp-witted and remarkably dangerous. He wielded sword or crossbow with an expert’s lightness, and he grasped the intricacies of situations with a quickness rarely associated with men so dedicated to the fighting arts. King Rikard had trusted the man completely, more than even his elite bodyguards; and Nightfall had seen him make snap judgments with remarkable competence. Luckily for him, direct orders had prevented Volkmier from killing him in two instances, and wise decisions in the other two. Though fate had pitted them on opposite sides, Nightfall held a grudging respect for the chief of Alyndar’s prison guards. He only wished circumstances would stop bringing them together.

Seated at the head of the table, King Edward Nargol grinned at Nightfall, genuinely glad to see him. It seemed wrong to Nightfall to see the adolescent monarch looking exactly the same as the impetuous, idealistic prince he had escorted for several painful, dragging months. Like the guards, Edward wore Alyndar’s colors and crest, a powerful fist clutching a hammer. Brilliant golden hair offset his round, handsome face. His tall, muscle-packed frame exceeded nearly all of his guards’, yet his friendly blue eyes betrayed the dangerous naïveté that had nearly gotten them both killed on so many occasions. “Sudian! So glad you could make it after all.” His voice held raw excitement, without a trace of sarcasm. He patted the chair at his left, though it contained a tall, slender man with ebony hair and dark brown eyes.

Though it placed his back to the door and to Captain Volkmier, Nightfall went to the indicated spot. The man already seated there rose less than graciously, executed a casual bow, and offered the chair to Sudian. “Chancellor.”

Nightfall stiffened. He had never heard that title applied directly to him, though the castle rumors had given him reason to believe the adviser position he had accepted was the same vacated by Gilleran’s death. Since King Edward seemed undisturbed by the reference, Nightfall did not question it. Edward would never allow a lapse in protocol to go unmentioned or unpunished. Nightfall sat, and the man who had occupied his chair found a position along the wall with the guards.

Edward cleared his throat, granting his full attention to Nightfall. “Sudian, I was just explaining to my council, advisers, and guards how I violated law and propriety by escaping from Duke Varsah’s incarceration in Schiz.”

You told them . . .
Though practiced at hiding emotion, Nightfall could not keep his nostrils from flaring.
You stupid, prattling moron!
He recalled details of their encounter with Duke Varsah from the time he had served as Edward’s adoring and steadfast squire, when the need to rescue his soul from magical bondage had driven his every action.
You blitheringly ignorant pretty-boy!
One of his attempts to get Edward landed had involved trying to form a romance between Prince Edward and the duke’s daughter, Willafrida. Instead, Nightfall had gotten Edward in trouble for sneaking into a highborn lady’s bedroom at night. The duke had trapped them neatly, insisting on a virginity test to prove the young prince had violated his daughter. Restitution, Varsah insisted, would have to come in the form of marriage, and he had had his eye on Edward’s brother, Crown Prince Leyne. Certain Willafrida would fail the test, through no fault of Edward’s, and crushed by the burden of limited time, Nightfall had fast-talked Edward into escaping the duchy.

“We need to apologize to the duke and pay him restitution.”

Nightfall stared into the king’s keen blue eyes, seeing nothing that would suggest he was joking. “But, M—” He stepped himself from saying “Master,” once a condition of the oath-bond. He had despised calling any man such a thing, but it had become ingrained habit difficult to shake. “Sire, the duke was wrong to have taken you prisoner. He’s the one who should apologize.”

Murmurs swept the room.

A frown scored Edward’s handsome features. “You are wise in many ways, Sudian; but, in this case, you are sorely mistaken. Duke Varsah found me in his daughter’s bedroom. He had every right to hold me.”

“You didn’t touch her.”

“That is immaterial, Sudian. I gave him reason to worry for her safety. He imprisoned me properly and appropriately under the laws of every kingdom. He and my father had a right to negotiate punishment.”

Nightfall rolled his eyes. The rules and ethics of nobles seemed lunacy. “She called you into her bedroom. Which is worse? Refusing the request of a noble lady or crossing a random threshold?”

The prince’s cheeks reddened, and his eyes narrowed in clear agitation. Nightfall found most people easy to read, but no one more so than King Edward. The inexperienced, virgin king felt flustered and embarrassed. “I’ve already explained my poor decision, Sudian. There’s no need to call more attention to it.”

It was not the point Nightfall had intended to make. “I only meant—” Worried he might make the situation even worse, he glanced around the room for assistance from the many men who watched the exchange in silence.

A stranger stepped in to rescue him. “His Majesty has described his intention to return to Schiz . . .”

Nightfall closed his eyes.
Please don’t tell me this innocent, overly moral fool plans to put himself back in Varsah’s custody.

“ . . . to make a personal apology and rectify his . . . um . . . error with monetary remuneration.”

Relieved his assumption had proved wrong, Nightfall released a pent up breath. He had seen the king do too many insane and dangerous things in the name of propriety and refused to underestimate Edward’s ability to get himself, and everyone around him, in trouble. “I see.”

Another man took up the explanation, in the voice Nightfall had heard when he first entered. “And I was explaining to His Majesty that we should send an emissary in his place. It’s just not done. In all of Alyndar’s history—”

Edward interrupted in a voice that made Nightfall cringe. “I know Alyndar’s history, Dacyl. Just because something’s never been done before, doesn’t render it wrong or immoral.”

Nightfall knew that tone too well. Edward saw the situation as a point of honor; and, when it came to his principles, the entire army of Alyndar could not sway him. The whole situation seemed nonsensical to Nightfall. The so-called imprisonment had consisted of placing Edward into a fancy room in the duchy tower, one they had easily escaped. In fact, it had taken Nightfall far more time and effort to talk Edward into leaving than it had to physically accomplish it.

Edward continued, “No king of Alyndar has ever broken kingdom law before either. Compensating a crime of that magnitude requires swift and direct attention.”

“Yes, Sire.” The man Nightfall had replaced spoke next. “But an emissary can provide both.”

Another cut in. “Khanwar’s absolutely right. We need you here, Your Majesty. The mourning period’s only half a month gone, and there is much to do.”

Edward turned his gaze to this new speaker. “And our long hours in court have paid off. We’ve cleared the docket. Anything that comes up while I’m gone can either wait for my return or pass the judgment of my . . . regent.”