The Return of Nightfall, page 19
The memory blossomed in Nightfall’s mind against his will. He remembered a dizzying fall from the castle parapets leaving him dazed and battered, a warning crossbow shot that nearly grazed his ear, and looking up to the red-haired commander kneeling on a ledge with crossbow aimed, drawn, and leveled. The same assured and threatening tone touched his voice then as now. “I don’t know what demon blessed you. I don’t know how you survived that fall, and I don’t want to know. The king wants you questioned. Hell take your wicked, ugly, disgusting, murdering soul, I’m going to see that his will is done. But if you so much as quiver . . . if you give me the slightest excuse, I’ll shoot you dead and revel in it.”
Then, Nightfall had lost the battle to the solace of oblivion. This time, he could only stare, a shiver spiral ing through his gut. He dared not even sputter out a meaningless phrase of gratitude, afraid the tremor in his voice might give him away.
For the first time, the audience applauded Nightfall’s decision as well as the bravado of Alyndar’s captain of the prison guards.
Nightfall forced himself to smile.
Chapter 9
I think what he struggles with most is that deep inside he’s a good man, fighting to become the demon his mother and the populace named him.
—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend
WITH THE HELP of his advisers, including Kelryn, Nightfall’s time in commoners’ court went far smoother than when he had faced the nobility. As the last farmer skipped down the carpetway, a free man, Nightfall collapsed into his seat. Khanwar’s pronouncement that court was adjourned brought a stiff grin to his lips, and he watched the nobles file out without bothering to move. Apparently, propriety allowed them to stand while he remained seated, and he savored the moments snuggled against padding warmed by his body.
Kelryn took Nightfall’s callused hand. “Not so easy being king?”
Nightfall shrugged. He felt weary, but not physically exhausted. He doubted it would have proved nearly as difficult had he not sailed into port just that morning and gotten thrown into unfamiliar territory without a hint of warning. He could see where placating nobles and judging commoners could become routine. He only hoped it would never become his routine. Seeing no reason to contradict, he only repeated, “I’m not the king.” Alerted by caution to another presence in the room, he glanced up to see a young page trotting down the carpet. He groaned.
The boy removed his hat and bowed at the foot of the dais.
No one else seemed to notice the newcomer, but Nightfall’s gaze went directly to him. Though he dreaded discovering what matter needed his attention now, he addressed the boy. “What can I do for you?”
The page sprang to an upright position. His voice squeaked over the general din of the advisers’ conversation, “Sire, your immediate presence has been requested in the Strategy Room. The Council awaits you there.”
Nightfall had no intention of going from one stodgy proceeding directly to another. He had not eaten since his arrival in Alyndar. “Tell them I’m not coming.”
The page’s dark eyes widened. He kneaded his hat between his hands.
Khanwar leaped in, “Sire, you can’t do that.”
Nightfall could scarcely believe how many people presumed to order him about like a servant. He had always thought the king had ultimate freedom, and he had never seen people treat Edward in this manner. “I think, Khanwar, I can. I really, really think I can.” He dripped a venomous warning into the repetition.
Khanwar swallowed hard.
Kelryn stepped forward to soften the stalemate. “Sir, what I believe the chancellor is trying to say is he would like a chance to relieve himself, to get a bite to eat, to . . . to freshen up first.”
Khanwar opened his mouth, then closed it. He motioned to Charson to take over the explanation.
Charson cleared his throat. “Sire.” He pitched his voice to soothe.
Always willing to listen to his more temperate companion, Nightfall kept his anger in check.
“You may, of course, stop at the garderobe on the way; and the Council never meets without refreshments. They know you have spent the day in court and will see that you are . . . appropriately nourished.”
Nightfall studied Charson. He seemed sincere, and Nightfall trusted a man of Charson’s girth when he said the food would prove adequate.
Kelryn leaned over, as if to kiss Nightfall, then whispered in his ear. “Ransom.”
Nightfall understood. Kelryn had already stressed the significance of the High Council. If they chose to meet with him at such an inopportune time, it surely had something to do with King Edward, probably the arrival of the kidnappers’ demands. “All right, then.”
Khanwar visibly relaxed.
Nightfall sprang from the chair, only to find his muscles stiff from disuse. He stumbled gracelessly, squirming to release the knots from sitting too long in one place. More than emptying his bladder, more than eating, he wanted a rousing dance or a sprint around the palace. His tiredness was entirely mental, and the last thing he wished to do was attempt to match wits with a roomful of Alydarian nobles. For Ned, he reminded himself for what seemed like the millionth time. He jumped down from the dais.
The page took several startled steps backward, then scrambled into an awkward bow to the chancellor, who now stood beside him. When he finally managed to speak, he said, “F-f-follow me, please, Lord Chancellor.”
Nightfall did as the boy bade, walking back up the carpetway and out the great doors, surprised to find only the usual two inner guards dogging him. Somehow, he had expected the entire retinue of Castle Alyndar to sew itself to his hips.
Nightfall fairly skipped up the carpeted stairs of the West Tower, forcing the page into a short-legged jog and sending his armored, two-guard entourage clomping in their wake. The need for motion, not excitement or interest kept Nightfall moving so swiftly, or so he explained it to himself. He could not admit, even to himself, his eagerness to learn the High Council’s business, to gain some information, no matter how small or bleak, about Edward’s condition.
Though focused on business, Nightfall could not help but notice the cathedral windows on every landing. Shutters and bolts on the first three floors gave way to paned glass on the fourth. He knew from experience the upper floor windows would lie open, essentially safe from prowlers and would-be thieves; but the page stopped at a steel-bound, oak door on the fourth floor guarded by a pair of attentive sentries.
The page gestured at the door with a flourish and bow, then reached for the latch. The guards who had accompanied Nightfall stepped aside, joining their companions stationed beside the door. The page struggled to pull open the heavy, unusually thick panel, managing the feat only by seizing the ring in both hands and grunting with each mincing back step that enlarged the growing crack.
Nightfall waited only until it became an opening he could squeeze through without losing his dignity, then ducked inside the room. Five immaculately clothed men sat around a massive table that took up most of the space, and he recognized all of them from the meeting where Edward had announced his intention to visit Schiz. At the head sat the massive general who had dedicated his men to the king’s security. About a dozen others stood along the walls, wearing tailored linens or fancy silks. Nightfall knew only a few of these, including Captain Volkmier in a gray-and-lavender dress uniform decorated with short ribbons and medals. Maps covered the walls, and Nightfall noticed no windows, which immediately increased his level of alertness. A chandelier hung over the table, holding eight large candles that lit the room in irregular patches and left other parts in dense shadow. The table held papers and two silver trays of food and mugs. The aroma of warm bread, meat pies, fruit, and juice intertwined with several clashing perfumes turned Nightfall’s hunger into nausea.
This time, no one bothered to stand when Nightfall entered. The enormous general at the head of the table motioned him to the only empty chair, at the far end.
Without a word, Nightfall took his seat.
The general looked across the table at him. “Lord Chancellor Sudian, so nice of you to come.”
Like I had a choice. Nightfall lowered and raised his head once in respectful acknowledgment. He had already decided to speak as little as possible. He wanted to gather as much information as he could, then excuse himself as soon as propriety allowed. He did not like crowds, unless he could disappear into them, and he definitely did not fit in here. Even eating no longer seemed important. Nervousness and the myriad smells combined to sap his appetite.
The man at the head of the table continued, “I am Simont Basilaered, the general of Alyndar’s army.” He rose, unfolding the tallest frame Nightfall had ever seen. Had they stood together, Nightfall would look directly into the man’s breastbone. Muscled like a bull, Simont probably outweighed one. Hair as black as ash perched in a pile of curls on top of his head, and a thick beard bristled from his chin connected by a dense line of sideburns. Nightfall estimated the man’s age was close to his own, though no one else would assume such a thing. Nightfall looked a decade younger when scrubbed clean as Sudian, while Simont’s craggy face added years to his appearance. A large nose and bushy brows overshadowed eyes so dark they appeared to have no pupils.
“To my left is the top-ranked officer of Alyndar’s navy, Lord Admiral Nikolei Neerchus.”
Nightfall tore his gaze from the army’s giant, only to look upon another. Though not quite as tall as his land-based equal, the navy commander matched him for bulk, all of it hard sinew and muscle. He was blond and handsome in contrast to the general’s dark homeliness. He appeared calmer, more gentle, an appearance enhanced by enormous green eyes and clean-shaven, chiseled features. Nightfall tried to memorize names and titles, knowing he had barely begun and wishing the men would stick with a single name or designation. He had an excellent memory, but the seventeen men in the room would surely challenge it.
The general indicated the man sitting beside the admiral. “And this is Sir Alber Evrinn, a knight of Alyndar and its third largest landholder.”
Alber rose, and the admiral retook his seat. Though taller and broader than Nightfall, the knight looked positively tiny in the wake of the military commanders. He had a wild crop of medium-brown hair that seemed as untamable as Nightfall’s own. He appeared preter naturally sad, with sloping pale brown eyes, a long face, and a small pointy nose.
The general skipped Nightfall to move to the other side of the table. “Another knight of the realm, Sir Tenneth Kentaries, second largest landowner.”
Alber took his seat, and the middle-aged man directly across from him rose. Average in height and breadth, at least for a courtier, he sported sand-colored hair cut short and plastered with oil. Pale, flabby skin poked from beneath his silken garb. His straight-set features boasted of a handsome youth, but his hazel eyes had gone watery with age. He rested his hands on the table, long-fingered like a thief’s but without dirt or callus. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, though his tone seemed a mix of boredom and suspicion.
The general gestured at the only remaining seated man. “This is Baron Elliat Laimont, our largest landholder.”
Sir Tenneth sat, and the baron rose. Fat and white-haired, his fine features widened by bulk, he still carried an aura of command that demanded respect. His dazzling outfit displayed at least five colors. Nightfall guessed he had a wife. Few men could coordinate clothing so complicated with such seamless competence. Though not a striking gentleman, he managed an air of cultured attractiveness despite size and age, and much of that had to do with his clothes.
The baron gave Nightfall a stiff nod, then took his seat.
Nightfall glanced around the table, trying to commit each name and appearance to memory. It seemed easiest to go by titles: the huge dark general, the almost-as-huge light admiral, the well dressed baron, and two knights: one sad-looking, one pale. Trying not to groan, he looked around at the remaining men, standing, sitting, and leaning against the walls.
But the general did not bother to introduce the others, instead going right to business. “Chancellor, we apologize for disturbing your busy schedule, but we have some concerns requiring immediate address.”
Nightfall kept his attention firmly on General Simont Basilaered. He did not have to feign interest. The solemn and serious expressions on every face displayed the significance of this meeting. Receipt of a ransom note seemed certain. He only wished the enormous man would come directly to the point. Seeing no reason to delay by adding words of his own, he remained silent.
“As you know,” the general continued, “Duke Varsah of Schiz sent a contingent of men to Alyndar.”
“I traveled with them,” Nightfall reminded the general, hoping it might forestall more talk of the obvious. It suddenly occurred to him that Ragan and his men should have reported to court with the rest of the nobility, yet they had not stood before him.
As if in direct answer to Nightfall’s unspoken question, General Simont said, “They came straight to us, the High Council, just as the duke’s earlier message did.”
Earlier message? Nightfall did not let his curiosity show. He wondered how word could have arrived quicker. They had taken the shortest route to Alyndar, by sea, and had left reasonably fast. He supposed someone traveling alone might have made better time, especially if he had not fallen into the hands of pirates; but the message would have arrived only a few hours sooner, which scarcely seemed worth the trouble. Unless it was a ransom demand. It made no sense. What in all hell is going on?
“Both raised some interesting concerns and questions.”
Nightfall read warning in the general’s statement, bordering on accusation. Every gaze went to him, intent and unflinching. They seemed to expect some reaction to words that warranted none. He tried to analyze the matter but was surely missing necessary information the others already had. Remaining quiet still appeared to be his best course of action. Nevertheless, they all clearly required something from him. “I’d warrant so.” He met Simont’s gaze with a casual ease that was a sham. The growing tension in the room bothered him, and his survival instincts drove him to caution and escape. “Anything . . . useful?”
“Maybe.” Simont met Nightfall’s look solidly. “Perhaps we could hear your version?”
Nightfall blinked, still uncertain whether or not he faced some sort of threat. “My version . . . ?” He trailed off, hoping one of the other men would fill in the blanks. The utter lack of extraneous conversation unnerved him. Either etiquette held them at bay, or nothing interested them as much as the ongoing discussion, as one-sided as it was.
“. . . of King Edward’s kidnapping.”
Nightfall shrugged. “I’m afraid I wasn’t there.” His own words raised ire. If I had been, this never could have happened. He did not know who to hate more: Ned for forcing him to fulfill a disingenuous promise or himself for not coming up with a better excuse for refusing Brandon Magebane. He tried not to think about the consequences of leaving Byroth alive. Brandon might well have died without Nightfall’s help, and a dangerous sorcerer could still stalk the world; but at least King Edward would have remained on Alyndar’s throne.
“We know,” the general said through clenched teeth. The men around the table stirred, clearly wanting to speak yet constrained by etiquette and rules of order. “On some mysterious mission which kept you away just long enough to survive the kidnapping.”
Nightfall did not like where the questioning was headed. “Not true. I was gone all evening and night, not just—”
This time, Simont Basilaered did not allow him to finish. “And you returned exhausted and covered in blood.”
Covered in . . . ? Nightfall could scarcely believe Schiz had exaggerated his wound. “It was my blood.” Protestation seemed futile. Only Brandon and Gatiwan could confirm his explanation; and they had promised to keep him out of the matter, swore that they would never mention his name. Even if they retracted their promise, Duke Varsah would make certain the Magekillers did not have the opportunity to assist him. Besides, Nightfall had no intention of letting large groups of distant courtiers and nobles judge what had happened that night. When the truth came out, and it surely would, it would destroy a friendship and a family; and he would face the justice of Duke Varsah for killing a child. He had no doubt that would prove as severe as anything Alyndar would inflict on him, even if they really believed he had a hand in Edward’s disappearance.
“Can you explain your whereabouts?”
“I can.”
Simont’s brows rose in expectation.
Nightfall had had enough. “But I won’t. I don’t have to. Ned traveled the world with only me for protection, and I got him through it alive. I saved him from a sorcerer, by the Father! I don’t owe explanations to anyone.”
The baron could no longer hold his tongue. “You owe one to us.”
Simont took back the reins of control. “You would not be the first loyal servant to turn against his liege when granted a position of power. A chance at the crown.”
The comparison to an evil, ruthless sorcerer enraged Nightfall. “We’re finished here.” He sprang to his feet.
The men at the table rose with him, the admiral so quickly his chair tumbled over backward. It slammed against the floor as the men already standing bunched toward the door, the only exit from the room.
Nightfall’s heart rate quickened, but he hid his tension behind a mask of bravado. “Get out of my way.”
“You still have questions to answer,” the pale knight proclaimed.
“And I’ve already told you I won’t speak of that night.” Nightfall took a step toward the door, knowing he could not successfully fight his way through the crowd. If for no other reason, because Volkmier stood nearest the door. “Surely someone in the tavern overheard Ned commanding me to assist two men who came in that evening. I tried to refuse them, but he wouldn’t let me.”
The other knight spoke softly but with whipcrack force. “Chancellor Sudian, name your parents.”
