The Return of Nightfall (32 page)

It took a surge of will not to stiffen at that sound, not to turn and ascertain he had just become locked into a small space with two guards much larger than himself. He knew the drill but feigned ignorance.

“All weapons must be left here,” the first guard said.

Nightfall nodded. “A good precaution, but I’m unarmed.” It was a lie he hoped they would not uncover. He had only the three daggers, those well hidden beneath layers of clothing that a cursory search would not uncover.

As before, the guard patted him down, missing the slim, flat blades. The guard gestured toward the only other exit from the room.

The second guard drew out a key, which he used in the lock, then pulled the panel open to reveal a huge room filled with pillows. A single lit lantern dangled from one of the torch brackets lining the outskirts of the room. A hearth took up most of one wall, filled with ashes and half-charred logs. Across from it, a shelf held an assortment of knickknacks and other feminine bric-a-brac. Genevra sat near the niche in the wall that held her clothing, her waist-length, blonde hair faded and sleep-tangled, her lids droopy over her usually intense green eyes.

Knowing she would not recognize him by appearance and afraid she might cry out something dangerous, Nightfall stepped forward and spoke in hasty
lavvey,
“I’m in disguise.”

Genevra blinked, long lashes gliding up and down. She rose, the lightweight fabric of her sleeping gown falling around a slender figure built for dancing. Unlike him, she used the tongue of the Yortenese Peninsula, apparently for the guards. “Hunnidun! How wonderful to see you again!” She sprang toward him, wrapping her arms around him. She felt insubstantial against him, as easily broken as a child’s toy. Mouth pressed against his ear, she whispered, “Sudian?”

Nightfall embraced her, though it caused him intense pain. “I’ve missed you, Sister.” He added under his breath, “It’s me.” Surreptitiously, he rubbed away clay from his left hand to reveal the scars left from her healing. It would convince her better than anything he might say. A craftsman always remembered his personal handiwork. He whispered in
lavvey,
“Would you like to see my thigh, too?” Only five people knew she had also handled a second wound: Nightfall and the four guards who had overseen the process.

Clearly convinced, Genevra pulled free and looked past him. “Please, leave me alone with my brother.”

“But, Lady,” the second guard protested.

“I’m in no danger from my own beloved brother!” Genevra snapped. “Am I not allowed a moment of privacy now and then?”

“Yes, my lady.” The first guard grabbed the gruffer man’s sleeve. Both exited with a bow and a glance at Genevra’s face, as if to make certain she did not need them.

Genevra made a dismissive gesture, and the men exited, pulling the door shut behind them. Nightfall noticed in the silence that followed, the absence of a lock clicking. The guards could, and surely would, return at the slightest hint of trouble.

Though the guards had gone, Genevra used
lavvey,
“Won’t my mother be surprised to learn she has a son?”

Nightfall forced a tired smile. “I’m sorry about the lie. I couldn’t think of any other way to see you.”

“What’s wrong with the truth, Sudian?”

Nightfall cringed at the name, worried her use of
lavvey
meant the guards could overhear. “Supposedly, I murdered King Edward for the throne.”

Genevra jerked away. Suddenly, all sleepiness left her. “Did you?”

“What do you think?”

Genevra shook her head and opened her mouth. When no words emerged, she shook her head again, more vigorously. “I think a squire as wildly loyal as you would never crease a hair on his golden head.” She studied him briefly. “And I don’t think you have the size or strength to manage it, even if you wished him harm. Although . . .”

Nightfall let her finish.

“ . . . I wouldn’t have believed you could come up with a disguise this . . . this . . .”

“. . . impenetrable?” Nightfall suggested.

“Yes. How did . . . ? Where did you learn . . . ?”

“Desperation makes for fast students.” Nightfall tried to look sincere and a bit pitiable. He needed Genevra’s help, and he had to have her on his side. He had gone with the truth, a tactic that had served him well in recent weeks. He only hoped it would not fail him now.

Genevra waited for an explanation, a direct answer. “I would never hurt my master. Not ever. And you have to believe me; I didn’t even know it was possible for a lowborn servant like me to be in line for the throne.” Nightfall did not have to feign the anxious pain that entered his voice as he spoke, and Genevra clearly knew it.

“I believe you.” Genevra sat cross-legged on one of the many pillows and gestured for him to do the same.

“I’m hoping he’s still alive. That I can find him and bring him home.” Nightfall crumpled more than sat. The agony of his wound, the rage and distress in his heart, a sleepless night combined into a numbing and all-consuming pain. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” The words sounded ridiculous from his mouth; but, this time, it was truth.

“You’re hurting,” Genevra said.

Nightfall closed his eyes and nodded. Speaking his situation aloud dragged hopelessness to the fore. For the first time since his mission had started, he wanted to surrender: to the pain, to the grief, to despair.

“Now let me see that thigh wound.”

Nightfall’s eyes flicked opened, and his head rose. He thought he had convinced her of his true identity hidden beneath the dyes, paints, and dirt. Without a word, he peeled away layers of clothing that added bulk to his otherwise scrawny frame to expose his legs.

Genevra scooted closer, using a rag to wipe through the olive coating to the paler flesh beneath it. Though faint and fading, enough remained of the scar to convince her, he believed. She leaned over him, smelling faintly of some clove-based perfume or soap. Her long hair tickled his face. She placed her hands directly on his thigh and caressed the skin lightly, fingers moving sensuously over the skin far beyond the treated area.

Blood warmed Nightfall’s cheeks and privates. He felt himself responding to her fondling against his will.

Genevra raised her face to his, close enough to kiss. “You want me,” she announced in a whisper.

Distinctly uncomfortable, Nightfall caught her hand before she could touch any place definitively improper. “Of course, I want you. What man wouldn’t want a young, beautiful, talented, and clever woman?”

Genevra smiled at the compliments.

“But I can’t, Genevra. I’m betrothed.”

The smile wilted. “You’re betrothed?”

Nightfall nodded, hoping he had not just destroyed all reason for her to help him. He had rarely used attraction as a tool before. Though women had sought him out for the notoriety sleeping with the demon might bring them, he had never worried about betraying or disappointing them. Few of his personae had much to offer when it came to appearances. Most had scars or pocks, some carried crippling reminders of previous accidents or illnesses; and he was not the strapping do-it-all most women sought for spouses. He rarely spent enough time as any one person to cultivate a healthy relationship. Only as the sailor, Marak, had he managed such a thing, the identity under which he had associated with Kelryn and Dyfrin. “I’m betrothed. To a wonderful woman I don’t deserve.”

Genevra withdrew with a joke clearly intended to disperse embarrassment and disappointment. “So . . . she’s marrying . . . beneath her.”

Nightfall tried to help with some humor of his own. “Some would say all women do.”

Genevra rewarded him with a chiming laugh. “Not this time. She’s very lucky.”

Lucky was not a word Nightfall would ascribe to anyone who cared for him. “Thank you, but you must know how silly that sounds. My beloved master is missing, and I’m being hunted for his murder under threat of execution. I’m not known for my looks or strength. I’d scarcely call getting tangled in that ‘lucky.’ ”

Genevra retook her position on the cushion while Nightfall casually restored his clothing. “And yet, I am. But I don’t get any of the good parts of the sweet, caring, mysterious man. Those are for—” A light dawned in her eyes. “It’s Kelryn, isn’t it?”

Astounded by her insight, Nightfall could only swallow hard and nod.

“I should have known right away. It only makes sense I’d send a man running right to the woman who could steal him from me.” Genevra smiled, though it looked forced. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

Nightfall gave the only reply he could. Though not what Genevra wanted, it was the single one she would believe. “Yes. She is.”

“And she deserves some joy.”

Nightfall agreed. “More than I can give her.” His words sank deep, more significant to him than to Genevra. Recalling the reason the healer had sent him after Kelryn, he added, “She’s alive, obviously. Scarred by her encounter, but not damaged.” Like Genevra, Kelryn had been present when Alyndar’s sorcerer/chancellor had slaughtered Dyfrin for his talent. Genevra had escaped first and had been concerned about Kelryn. When she had sent Nightfall after the dancer, she had not known he already hunted her for his own reasons.

Genevra apparently read something beyond his words. “You’re injured, too. Aren’t you?”

Nightfall could not put the healer’s words into the context of what he had just said.

Apparently noting his hesitation, Genevra continued, “I mean you’re hurt physically as well as emotionally.”

Nightfall nodded, hiding his interest. It was, after all, the real reason he had come.

“Would you like me to take a look?”

“Please.” Nightfall unlaced garments, unwrapping some and hauling others over his head. Every movement sent fire tearing through his chest and arm.

Genevra watched him disrobe with a tight smile of amusement. “Preparing for a blizzard?”

“It’s part of the disguise.” Nightfall would have found it difficult to play a character skinnier than himself, so he automatically went to padding. His natal gift obviated the need for strength or bulk.

“Left shoulder,” Genevra figured out before he peeled away the last layer.

Though Nightfall continued to move in such a way as to hide the injury, he could not fool a woman self-trained to notice any sign of physical weakness since birth. Soon enough, he proved her right, revealing the shredded skin the crossbow bolt had left in its wake.

All trace of amusement left Genevra’s demeanor. She sucked in a tight breath. “You’ve been shot.”

Nightfall said nothing, not needing to confirm the expert’s diagnosis.

Genevra moved in to practically sit in his lap, though this time there was nothing sexual about her demeanor. “You were very very lucky.”

Nightfall knew exactly what she meant, how close the bolt had come to his heart. “Most people would call getting shot very very
un
lucky.”

Caught up in the seriousness of her task, Genevra initially missed the humor. “You have a lot of vital organs in that area. It could have hit a lung, a big blood vessel, the heart itself.” She sat back on her heels, smiling suddenly. “I can fix this.”

Nightfall knew her gift had limitations, but he had never doubted her ability to handle the wound. “Good. Will you?”

“Of course.” Genevra’s muscles tightened as she visibly steeled herself. She always shared some of the pain when she healed a wound, though it lessened for healer and victim quickly.

Nightfall remained still and allowed Genevra to find the best position for her own comfort. Her small hands explored the edges of the wound tentatively. Then, the healing power came in a rush of energy that tingled through his chest. She winced, emitting a muffled gasp.

Nightfall swung his attention to the door, worried the guards might have heard even that small sound and would come bursting into the room. One glimpse of the crossbow hole would surely give him away.

Genevra planted both hands against Nightfall’s injury, and the pain ebbed away, replaced by the draw of healing tissues. She managed a shaky smile. “How long have you been suffering with this?”

Nightfall could barely remember. He had bullied through the agony for so long, he noticed only the crescendos. It bothered him most when he tried to sleep, when more pressing needs and concerns could not distract him. “A week or so,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. It was a silly charade. She knew exactly how much it pained him.

Genevra’s alarm came through, though she clearly tried to hide it. “You know,” she said, not quite casually. “An infection this close to the heart would be fatal.”

The words themselves did not surprise Nightfall, but the implication did. “Was it infected?”

“A bit.” Though Genevra had raised the issue, she seemed to want to dodge the obvious question. “With time, it would have gotten worse.” She gave him a motherly look. “Not a nice way to die.”

Nightfall had never expected to die nicely. Nor did he believe he could dodge death forever. He would have thought he had used up all his luck in that department. “Can you fix the infection, too?”

“No. I can’t do illnesses.”

Nightfall sucked in a sharp breath.

“But once I heal the wound, it should go away. It hasn’t penetrated deeply—yet.” Genevra emphasized the last word. “If you had waited much longer, you would have died.” She added fiercely, “A grimy arrow, probably shot in practice through moldy, manure-stained straw doesn’t belong in a man’s flesh.”

Nightfall did not bother to correct the misconception about the kind of bow that had shot him. “Next time, I promise I’ll ask the guy attacking me to launder his weapons first.”

“Funny.”

“Thank you.” Nightfall rolled his eyes to examine the wound. Though mostly covered by Genevra’s hands, it already looked much better. The skin had pulled almost completely together, and the pain had nearly disappeared. He knew she had no obligation to assist him, yet she had saved his life and his mission. He only wished he knew how to properly express his gratitude. It had not been a necessary skill in his youth, when his abusive mother and her clients had treated him as an annoyance, if they had bothered to acknowledge his existence at all. He owed much to Dyfrin who, he now realized, had rescued him from becoming nothing more than the black-hearted demon whose role and name he had abandoned. He had never properly thanked Dyfrin, had barely even acknowledged the enormous service the man had done for him so matter-of-factly day by day through the years. But then again, as a mind reader, Dyfrin already knew. “And thank you for the healing. I’m . . .” The words did not come easy to Nightfall. “I’m in your debt. Is there something I can do for you?”