"Third, you cannot harm or willingly cause or allow to be harmed Ned, Leyne, myself, Gilleran, or any noble, servant, or guardian of Alyndar’s court. And fourth, Nightfall is declared executed. You take a new name, identity, and appearance, and cannot tell anyone who you used to be."
“That’s it?" Nightfall asked sarcastically.
"That’s it," the king acknowledged.
Nightfall immediately found the gap in the plan. “And, once I’ve finished serving your son, you execute me."
"If you fulfill the provisions of this oath, if Ned is landed by Harvest Moon, the oath-bond is automatically dissolved. You become a free man with no debts or obligations and a chance to start life fresh. Since all conditions of the agreement disappear once the oath is gone, I can’t force lasting demands on you. It’s in my best interests to keep you happy, to give Nightfall no reason to reemerge.
Do you agree to the terms?"
Nightfall considered. lf he refused, he would die. He found the thought of serving a guileless fool unpalatable; yet, at least, he would be a living servant. Possibly, he could find a way of escaping the terms of the oath-bond if he found himself unable to fulfill them. And I have to consider the possibility that the king is lying about the workings of the spell. That last thought haunted Nightfall, but magic was rare and every spell as different as the innate ability from which it sprang. Having no experience with this particular spell, he had no way of guessing its weaknesses. "May I ask some questions?"
"You may."
"When Ned becomes landed, I’m free of all parts of the oath-bond?"
“Correct."
“Am I also acquitted of all crimes?"
King Rikard hesitated. “Yes. At least in Alyndar, though that doesn’t give you freedom to commit more. So long as you take a new identity, I don’t think the other countries will try you either. They’ll take my word that Nightfall’s dead. And, in a manner of speaking, he will be. As I said, it’s in my best interest to keep you happy, to see that you have enough money and stature to prevent the need for murder or theft.”
That had an undeniable appeal. Survival had driven Nightfall to an unprecedented spree of crime. Status and wealth would mean he never had to sin again, and a new identity would end decades of running.
"What if one of us dies? Or the chancellor?"
King Rikard deferred the question to his sorcerer.
Gilleran cleared his throat. "Once cast, my life has no connection to the spell. My death or that of His Majesty, may the gods prevent it, will not affect the bond. Your death, of course, would dissolve it.” He barely moved his mouth as he talked, expressionless as a corpse, his eyes hollow and unrevealing. "Though it would gain you nothing."
Except a chance to die a normal death, instead of becoming a tormented soul bound to a sorcerer. Nightfall kept the thought to himself, though Gilleran answered it naturally.
"Don’t get any ideas about taking your own life the day before the deadline. Suicide violates any oath-bond. Your spirit would still belong to me."
The words chilled Nightfall, all the more effective for their deadpan delivery and timing that made it seem as if Gilleran had read his mind. "I need time to think."
"Very well," the king said. "I’ll give you time. You have until I count to twenty." He took a deep breath. "One. Two…"
Sighing, Nightfall let King Rikard’s words disappear into the rhythms of his thoughts. He had become too dedicated to survival to choose death over life, no matter how conditional.
"… Five. Six…"
Rising, Nightfall approached the bars. "What do I have to do?"
Chapter 3
When shadows fall and sunlight breaks,
What Nightfall touches, Nightfall takes.
Lives and silver, maids in bows Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
– "The Legend of Nightfall"
A week after its casting, the oath-bond still tingled through Nightfall like blood flow returning to an awakening limb, the feeling a constant, nagging reminder of its presence. Alone in a room in Alyndar’s castle, he perched on a wooden chair, studying his distantly familiar face in the mirror. A series of scouring baths had removed the grime and dyes that had become a constant feature of so many of his personae. The ever-present beard was gone, his hair trimmed into a fashionably short style. The soft, thick locks glistened mahogany brown, wound through with reddish highlights, so different from Nightfall’s black curls, Marak’s dark tangles and Frihiat’s bleached curtain, a color Nightfall had not seen since his childhood. The olive skin tones were replaced by his natural, fair coloring. The missing scraggle of beard revealed a strong chin, and the unkempt froth of head and facial hair no longer hid his straight nose and ears. The painted scars that distinguished his various characters had washed away, leaving a face without Balshaz’s pocks, the slashes from Telwinar’s plowing accident, or Nightfall’s crisscross of ancient dagger wounds that made him look so frightening.
Even Nightfall’s body seemed different. He had never worn a country’s colors before, and the royal purple and silver of Alyndar’s tabard gave him a regal air that seemed horribly misplaced. Without padding and a wicked aura of confidence, he had lost Nightfall’s imposing build. Telwinar’s limp had disappeared, and playing polio-stricken Frihiat had required a hundred masterfully twisted performances. Though accustomed to a myriad of different appearances, Nightfall found the reality of Sudian Nomansson more striking and frightening than any alias. Without the scars, squints, affectations, and beard, he looked a decade younger than his thirty-four years and as frail as the mother who had borne him. Stunted by starvation in his youth, he stood a hand’s breadth shorter than most men and never seemed to eat enough to pack weight onto his narrow frame. Long, silent stalks, chases, and escapes had endowed him with quickness and agility, but his mass-shifting skill had obviated the need for bulk.
Only Nightfall’s eyes seemed familiar to him. Feigned drooping lids, roving irises, and shaven lashes had not changed their color nor the striking resemblance to his mother’s own. Crowded by sodden tangles of hair and a coiled, filthy beard, they had appeared more black. Now, the openness of his face and the pallor of his skin accentuated their deep blue, lending him a dashing innocence that inspired a chuckle of amusement. Even my old friend, Dyfrin, would never recognize me. Thoughts of the sandy-haired father-figure turned Nightfall’s laugh into a smile. He could not help but consider the advice Dyfrin would have given him now:
"Don’t think of it as doing the king a favor; he’s done you one. By removing your identity, he’s removed all your enemies. He’s given you a chance at a new life and a noble cause."
A noble cause, indeed. Using my knowledge and experience to keep a spoiled fool alive. Faking loyalty to a child pampered and admired for no better reason than his parentage and with no understanding of human nature or the real world. Nightfall sighed, the grin disappearing into a wash of bitterness. It bothered him to have a hand in gaining power for another noble ignorant of his followers needs, a leader who tended to politics and power while his peasants suffered from hunger, disease, and violence. And, to Nightfall, Prince Edward seemed the worst kind of ruler, a crusader who championed causes he did not and could never understand in ways that accomplished nothing but death and an earful of moralistic raving.
A week trapped in a castle room and daily sessions with Chancellor Gilleran, during which he learned general servant behavior, had left Nightfall anxious to leave Alyndar despite the persistent pain of fading bruises and broken ribs only partially healed. He kept his weight low to assist the healing process and resisted the urge to unlock the door and escape. The warning jangle of the oath-bond made him certain he would not get far. Although temporary freedom, such as a nightly study of the castle hallways, would gain him information about its layout and, perhaps, its rashly impulsive prince, it did not seem worth the risk. Hampered by mending wounds and ignorance, he dared not chance an encounter with Alyndar’s guardsmen now, in Sudian guise. Cooperation, or at least its appearance, might gain him freedom. Causing trouble or mining his disguise would seal his death.