The Return of Nightfall

Book 2: Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

In 1993, a character took the fantasy world by storm. He was known by countless names and terrifying deeds-thief, magic wielder, swordsman, assassin, adventurer. But chief among those names and the most dangerous of his personae was Nightfall, a man-or perhaps the legendary demon himself-gifted with a power any sorcerer would kill to possess. Now, Nightfall makes his triumphant return in a spellbinding new adventure that sweeps readers from the high courts to the darkest dungeons, from piracy and derring-do at sea to sorcerous encounters and cutthroat attacks in enemy territory. Bound by sorcery and oath to guard and guide Prince Edward on his quest, Nightfall is forced to reveal his true name, Sudian, and to use every trick at his command to keep himself and his idealistic young charge alive. And when Edward suddenly becomes a king, he makes Sudian his advisor. But advisor or not, Sudian cannot dissuade King Edward from a journey to repay a debt of honor to Duke Varsah, an expedition that ends in disaster when all of Edward's guards are slain and the king himself vanishes without a trace. Now Sudian must turn to Duke Varsah for aid. But is he putting himself into the clutches of the very man responsible for Edward's disappearance, a man whose greatest desire is vengeance against Sudian himself?

Release date: September 6, 2005

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 544

Sample

NIGHTFALL AWAKENED to the first rays of sunlight trickling through the open window of his room in Alyndar Castle. As always, he woke without stiffening, without changing the pattern of his breathing, without providing any hint to anyone who might be watching that the level of his alertness had changed. He assessed the status of his injuries from weeks-long habit; and, to his delight, found nothing amiss. For the first time since he had fallen the equivalent of nine stories, locked in battle with a flying sorcerer, nothing hurt.

Nightfall opened his eyes. He knew every detail of the room by heart, secure in the knowledge that, if anything had changed in the night, he would immediately be aware of it. He lay on a real bed, its ticking softened by thick, fuzzy blankets fit for royalty. His furniture consisted of a massive wardrobe, currently containing exactly two changes of clothing and sparse toiletries. An empty chest took up most of the space at the end of the bed, and a chamber pot sat in the corner.

Nightfall ran a hand through tangled mahogany-brown hair that no longer was covered in grime, dust, and dyes. Once a master of disguise living regularly as seven different men, and occasionally as several others, he had spent months adjusting to his given name, Sudian, and the one appearance he had not used since childhood: his own. Doing so obviated the need for him to assume postures that made his slightly less than average height seem taller or shorter, his slender and sinewy frame seem muscular, lame, or bulky; but it also left him feeling naked and vulnerable. Clean-shaven, Sudian had no way to hide his strong chin and cheekbones, his fair skin; and no shadowing or squints masked eyes the dense, dark indigo of blackened steel.

Now free of splints, bandages, and the ache of healing bones and muscles, Nightfall felt driven by the sudden urge to move. His life usually kept him in constant motion, in body and mind. He felt withered by the healing and resting, in desperate need of a reckless run or climb. His gaze went naturally to the window, and memory caught him in a sudden and frantic crush. Once again, he felt himself surging through the air as he attacked Chancellor Gilleran in a blood-maddened frenzy, his hands scrabbling for the sorcerer’s throat. Using magic, Gilleran flew, dragging Nightfall with him, through the seventh-story tower window. The sorcerer’s fingernails raked Nightfall’s face in crooked lines of fiery pain. Gilleran kicked and flailed to free himself, soaring ever higher to assure that when Nightfall’s grip failed, the fall would kill him.

Now, as then, Nightfall hid fear behind desperation and will. His mind was inescapably drawn back to that fateful encounter, and his vision gave him only whirling pictures of treetops, guards leaning from the tower windows, and the courtyard far below them. Gilleran’s struggles, and his own previous blood loss, impaired his coordination and threatened his hold on the sorcerer. Given the choice of dying alone or taking the chancellor with him, Nightfall chose the latter. He tapped the talent that had come to him at birth, driving his weight upward, beyond Gilleran’s ability to support. And both of them had plummeted.

It was a plunge Nightfall could never forget, seconds of utter panic that passed like an hour of shrieking agony. Gilleran’s screams had shattered his hearing, and the struggle to break free of Nightfall’s hold became lashing, pounding, and desperate. In the final moments, Nightfall had abruptly lowered his weight, propelling his body to feather-lightness with a thought. He could not reverse the deadly momentum, but it gave him the top position over Gilleran and allowed him to grab a tree limb to slow his descent. Ultimately, the landing killed Gilleran and left Nightfall with a shattered left hand, a dislocated shoulder, a badly bitten thumb, several broken ribs, and deeply unconscious.

He considered himself lucky to have survived at all.

Now, Nightfall pushed aside the detailed pictures his mind still so easily conjured. His life had always depended upon quickness in thought and action, deadly accurate skill, and split-second timing. He could not afford to develop a fear of anything. Hesitation would spell his doom, no matter how normal that delay or unwillingness might seem to the rest of the world. He had no time to spare for second thoughts when his only escape lay beyond a second-, or seventh-, or millionth-story window.

A knock on the door dragged Nightfall fully back to the present. He flipped open the wardrobe and grabbed a set of clean clothing: a shirt, tunic, and breeks in royal Alyndarian purple and silver. Noble’s clothes.

“Who is it?” he called, while he swiftly pulled off his nightshirt and donned the proper garb.

The muffled male voice was unintelligible.

Nightfall smoothed the cold fabric of his silks, shook back his hair, and opened the door to a young male guard with a sword at his belt, dressed in similar colors over mail.

Apparently expecting more conversation shouted through the door, the guard retreated a step, then bowed. “My lord, King Edward Nargol would like to know if you’re well enough to join him in court today.”

King Edward. The title still sounded bizarre to Nightfall. King Edward. He wondered if he could ever see more to the eighteen-year-old monarch of Alyndar than the impetuous, idealistic prince he had escorted around most of the world. Using Chancellor Gilleran’s magical “oath-bond,” King Rikard had bound the deadliest assassin in the four kingdoms to his dangerously naive younger son. Nightfall had been charged with the task of keeping Edward alive and getting him landed within a rapidly dwindling time period, all without the prince knowing his mission or his identity beyond that of the dutiful squire, Sudian. If Nightfall failed at any part, the magic assured Gilleran would take Nightfall’s soul and, with it, his natal weight-shifting talent.

And failure seemed a certainty. No matter what approach Nightfall had taken, Edward’s raw and innocent zeal mangled his best-laid schemes and plans. In the end, Gilleran had undone himself by murdering the elder prince and the king, thereby granting the crown to Edward, landing him through inheritance. Had Nightfall not interfered, Gilleran would have slaughtered Edward as well and would now rule both Alyndar and Nightfall’s soul.

Nightfall lowered his head. He would rather chew off his own fingertips than sit through a morning of highborns’ griping. “Please inform His Majesty pain kept me awake most of the night.” It was a lie. Nightfall could not remember a better sleep. “I’m still not quite ready for court.”

“Yes, my lord.” The guard bowed again, turned, and retreated down the hallway.

Nightfall closed the door, sighing as he did. The excuse would not hold up much longer. Two weeks had passed since the month-long grieving period for King Rikard and Crown Prince Leyne had ended, and the royal healers now proclaimed Nightfall fit. Twice, he had attempted to sit upon the chancellor’s seat at Edward’s side and perform his promised duty, but even dawdling had not rescued him from the tedium. Both times, he had arrived late enough to avoid all the fussy preparations, but he still had to face the proceedings. The first time, he fell asleep amid the ramblings of some knight about honor and family. Nightfall had blamed the lapse on pain medication, though he had taken none in daft The second time, he found his mind wandering and his body in perpetual, fidgeting motion.

Hoping to fulfill another need, Nightfall returned to the window and looked down the three stories into the inner courtyard. The sun had barely crested the horizon, and no one yet tarried or frolicked among the statues, flowers, and benches. Most had just awakened, and the autumn morning chill would keep them away at least until the approach of midday. Certain he had no audience, Nightfall sprang to the window ledge, then swung down onto the stonework of the tower wall. From habit, he easily found finger-and toeholds in the mortar.

A breeze caressed him, bringing with it the memory of wind surging around him as he tumbled helplessly toward the ground, locked with Gilleran. He banished the image fiercely. Fear would not have him. Instead, he concentrated on the feel of the cold stone against his hands, feet, and cheek, finding chinks from long habit, and shinnying down the side as if born to the process. This time, he did not even need to rely on his natal talent. Custom and practice alone allowed him a perfect downward climb.

The moment his feet touched ground, Nightfall shinnied back up, dodging the windows in the first and second floors. It would not do for the castle regulars and help to see the king’s adviser scurrying up and down walls like a spider. Soon, his stomach unclenched and his muscles loosened, falling into the familiarity of their task. The memories of his fall would stay with him, but they could no longer hurt him. One more climb and he would purge the feeling of desperation from his system, would escape the natural inclination to avoid any situation that might remind him of his latest brush with mortality.

For a man like Nightfall, escaping death was as routine as breathing; and he would not allow one incident to haunt him. His new position, as Edward’s adviser, protected him from many of the daily agonies he had known in his prior life. He no longer had to scrounge or steal to eat, no longer had to dodge predators in dark, shit-stinking alleys, no longer had to hide from the whims and rages of the street folk who had unwittingly raised him. But even the magnificent army and navy of Alyndar might not keep him safe from sorcerers.

Nightfall had learned in childhood to avoid using his natal weight-shifting talent whenever possible, worried about discovery. Sorcerers gained their magic only by slaying those rare people born with such an ability, and their method required tortuous ritual slaughter and taking possession of the victim’s soul. Any sorcerer who knew of his power would hunt him as fiercely as Gilleran and others had, and many people would sell any Gifted’s secret for the rewards a sorcerer would pay for such a tip. The Alyndarians still whispered about the gods, happenstance, or demons that had rescued Nightfall from sharing Gilleran’s fate; but few spoke their concerns aloud. To do so might belittle the sacrifice that had rescued King Edward from the fate of his father and brother.

Reaching the sill, Nightfall reversed his course again, needing one more wild climb to placate his internal demons. This time, he skittered like a squirrel, performing broad zigzags and looping circles, clinging sideways and upside down, reassuring himself that his wounds had claimed nothing permanent and his trepidations would never own him. He was Sudian now and forever, but no one had yet demanded that the king’s new adviser become as stodgy and ham-fisted as the others. In his many guises, he had scaled fortresses and mountains, scuttled across riggings and lines, and found his way through tunnels and mazes. He had even escaped the great prison of Alyndar.

Nightfall headed upward again, prepared to clamber back into his room and start his day with the rosy glow of exertion still on his face. As he reached the sill, a hand clamped over his, pinning it in place.

Nightfall froze as possibilities ticked through his mind. A sudden jerk might free him but would also send him tumbling to the ground. He would live, but he saw no need to risk injury, or reveal his talent, unnecessarily. Then, righteous indignation filled him. He knew of no law preventing him from climbing to his own bedroom window. He glanced upward to the young, plain features of his betrothed. Short hair, as white as an elder’s, feathered around her fine cheeks and green-brown eyes narrowed in clear irritation.

“Kelryn.” Nightfall hefted his other hand to the ledge. “You startled me.”

Taking his other wrist, she hauled him toward her.

Nightfall allowed her assistance, though he would have done better without it. Concerned he might inadvertently drag her out the window, he kept his weight on his legs and used only toeholds to work his way inside.

Once there, the lovers faced one another in silence. Nightfall made the first move, reaching for her.

Kelryn dodged his embrace. “Sudian, what are you doing?”

Nightfall smiled innocently. “Trying to hug and kiss the woman who promised to marry me.”

“Now what fool woman would agree to that?” Kelryn bantered, but an edge in her tone took the humor from her words.

Nightfall would have liked to give a witty reply, but he could not ignore the obvious. “You’re mad at me.”

That opened the floodgates. No longer attempting to hide her disappointment, Kelryn spilled the reason. “Of course I’m mad at you.” She turned away, a move that did nothing to lessen his desire for her. Once a dancer, she had a captivating grace that drew him every bit as much as her slender, muscular body. “Ned has treated us with such amazing kindness.” She used the nickname Edward preferred from friends, when formality did not exclude it. “How can you act so blatantly ungrateful?”

“Ungrateful?” Nightfall blinked, surprised by the accusation. “I am grateful. I’m grateful as hell.” Though perhaps not the best choice of words, Nightfall meant them. Gilleran had revealed Nightfall’s identity as the shadowy demon of legend to Edward. The new monarch had been all but honor-bound to execute Nightfall, yet had promoted him instead. Few would have the gall or desire to place an assassin in the ultimate position of trust, yet Edward had. He had also kept Nightfall’s secret, even from his inner circle of guards. The trust the king of Alyndar had placed in Nightfall would have seemed ludicrous and fatally misplaced had it not been so absolutely and utterly correct. In pretending to protect and venerate the guileless, mettlesome prince, he had come to respect and like him, much to his own surprise. “I nearly died saving his royal hide. Isn’t that grateful enough?”

“No.”

The answer caught Nightfall off guard. “No?”

“No, Sudian, it’s not enough.” Kelryn glided to the bed and sat, which only continued to fuel Nightfall’s desire. He had known her for years, yet his hunger for her never seemed satisfied. She had become his shining star, his very definition of beauty. “Graciousness isn’t a onetime thing. Edward is a friend, and you should treat him like one. Always.”

Nightfall did not bother to argue. Right or wrong did not matter; he could never win against Kelryn. “I’ve had exactly three friends in my life, and you’re one of them.” He crouched in front of her but did not reach to touch her again. “Perhaps I just don’t know how to treat them.”

“You do.”

Nightfall was not so sure. “Treat me like I don’t.”

Kelryn sighed and pulled her legs onto the bed, folding them. “Let’s start with this: You don’t make promises to friends you have no intention of keeping.”

Nightfall knew exactly where this was going. “You mean the adviser thing?”

Kelryn gave him a penetrating look. “The ‘adviser thing,’ as you so interestingly put it, was your vow to serve Alyndar and her king to the best of your ability. You agreed to become nobility, and it’s time you took up the responsibilities of your position as well as reaped the benefits.”

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 grandfather. 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 … urn … 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 turne