A boot tip thudded into Nightfall’s chest, stealing what little breath his shuddering lungs managed to gather. Gilleran kicked him repeatedly, shouting epithets Nightfall could not decipher over the roar of the oath-bond’s threat. Dimly, he recognized a series of kicks and blows, heard something crack, and tasted blood. But the physical agony seemed secondary. His mind seemed to slip away, as it had in childhood, separating thought from emotion. The battering became a familiar lull on which to focus his consciousness, its source a nameless creature that bore no relation to anyone he knew. The drive for retribution and self-defense died, unfullfillable, and the oath-bond gave him enough reprieve to feel the stabbing, aching momentos of the beating. And also to realize the pounding had stopped.
Nightfall staggered to his feet, forcing his pain-glazed eyes to focus. The cruelty had snapped Edward from trance to flying rage, and he charged the sorcerer with sword drawn. Gilleran calmly gestured, a spell different from any Nightfall had seen cast before. Logic jerked back to body in an instant. He recalled Kelryn’s description of the cutting magic that had dropped a tree branch on Ritworth. Then, Gilleran had only wanted to trap, not kill. What damage could a force that sharp do to a man? Nightfall sprang for Edward.
Nightfall crashed into the prince just as Gilleran made the final, curt movement. Pain gashed Nightfall’s side, magic opening the flesh from hip bone to buttocks. Edward collapsed, head slamming against a pew with a sickening thud. He slumped to the aisle, and momentum sent Nightfall tumbling over the seat then skidding beneath the pews. He thumped into the dais steps hard enough to jar every wound in his body. Blood smeared the wooden floor. Dizziness assailed him like an enemy, the blanket of buzzing stars that could only come from blood loss.
Nightfall’s eyelids felt heavy, but he forced himself to look. Edward lolled, unconscious, on the floor, his sword a hand’s breadth from his limp fingers. Near the door, the sorcerer started the ice spell again. This time, Nightfall knew he could not prevent it. He had lost, and his soul belonged to Gilleran. The urge to sink into coma, to pray to the Father that death took him first became an obsession. But survival instincts that had become more curse than friend nudged him to action. He staggered to his feet, already too late.
The door jerked open with an echoing snap and squealing hinges. King Rikard of Alyndar stood in the doorway. "Edward, I-"
Gilleran spun, redirecting his spell from surprise or desperation. White light bathed the king’s head. Rikard went still, mouth open, expression fixed. He pitched backward, head striking the floor and shattering. Shards skittered down the hallway, the sound eerily benign, nearly lost beneath the thud of his collapsing body.
Nightfall’s agony seemed to drop a thousand notches in an instant. Still dizzied, it took him longer than it should have to divine the reason. The king is dead and the eldest prince. Edward is king of Alyndar. Edward is landed. Freed from the oath-bond, Nightfall launched himself at Gilleran.
The stomp of footsteps funneled up the staircase, accompanied by the clatter of mail.
Gilleran swore, the ever-present smile becoming a desperate grimace. He whirled, sprinting deeper into the room. An accident in the chapel room that took king and prince, he could have arranged. This, he could never explain. His mad scrambling dash ran him headlong into Nightfall.
Both men sprang at once, Gilleran rising to fly for the window, Nightfall attacking in blood-maddened frenzy. Nightfall tackled the sorcerer, hands scrabbling for the throat, Gilleran twisting and swearing. The magic proved stronger. Gilleran soared upward, Nightfall still clinging and clawing for a better hold. As the Alyndarian sentries reached their king, some elbowing past to find the culprit, Gilleran and Nightfall shot through the window.
Once in free air, Gilleran fought back, planting his fingers on Nightfall’s face and raking his nails over flesh. Nightfall tossed his head, saving his eyes. The movement nearly cost him his grip. Gilleran spun, kicking and flailing to free himself from Nightfall’s encumbrance. The ground lay seven stories beneath them. Gilleran spiraled higher, ensuring Nightfall’s death when his grip finally failed.
Nightfall hid fear behind desperation and will. His mind filled with swimming spots, and his vision gave him only whirling pictures of tree tops, guards leaning from the tower window, and the courtyard far below them. Gilleran’s struggles and blood loss stole his coordination and, soon, his hold on the sorcerer. If I fall, I die. If we both fall, we both die. The choice was easy. Eventually, Gilleran would have to touch down, but Nightfall dared not risk the chancellor’s escape. He could not bear the cost in friends’ lives. He closed his eyes, concentrating on a quick prayer. Seven Sisters, may my death, at least, not be in vain. He opened his eyes, feeling an inner peace that he tried to believe came from divinity, though the absence of the oath-bond after so many months seemed the more likely explanation. He locked holds on Gilleran’s arm and belt, driving his weight to its maximum. They plummeted.
Gilleran screamed, writhing. He pounded on Nightfall’s wrists, then eeled his head and buried his teeth in the squire’s thumb.
Nightfall jerked, saving his finger instinctively, but losing the arm grip. Tree limbs snapped like twigs beneath them. Nightfall dropped his weight as the ground rushed up to meet them. They spun like flotsam, Gilleran flopping to the bottom as he became the heavier of the two. Nightfall stiffened for the impact, trying one last, urgent act. He imagined himself weightless as he released his death grip on Gilleran’s belt and snatched a tree branch from the air.
Gilleran crashed to the grass, limp. Nightfall closed his eyes as he continued to fall, his previous velocity unstoppable. The branch bent only slightly, bearing his meager weight. The jolting stop tore his right shoulder from the socket, and he felt something snap in his left hand. The branch held, but his grip did not. He fell again, his speed seeming impossibly slow in comparison, most of his momentum broken. He landed on Gilleran, then rolled to the ground, his last realization that the impact had not killed him. "Good-bye, Dyfrin," he managed to think before oblivion overtook him.
Epilogue
Nightfall awakened enfolded in blankets as smooth as water. Consciousness brought the throb and sting of myriad wounds, softened by the comfortable fuzziness induced, he guessed, by some sort of pain-hazing elixir. The hurt did not escape him completely, but his mind would not allow him to care, turning agony to discomfort. His arms ached worst of all. He could feel the stiff touch of a splint holding the left fingers in place. The twinge that accompanied every breath told him Gilleran’s kicks had shattered some ribs, and a dull throb along his hip and side reminded him of the cutting magic that nearly killed Edward. His shoulder felt sore, but someone had restored its proper alignment.
Nightfall opened his eyes to slits, routinely cautious. Head bandaged, Edward knelt before a plush chair in which Kelryn perched squarely, her dancer’s legs tucked beneath her. Nightfall found himself unable to focus on the other furnishings, although he did reassure himself that no other person occupied the room. The oddity of a crown prince on the floor struck him, but he did not bother to gather the energy necessary for speech.
Kelryn broke what had obviously been a long and uncomfortable silence for both. “Ned, I’m flattered. Under other circumstances, I could think of nothing more wonderful than becoming the queen of Alyndar."
Nightfall’s eyes flicked open unconsciously.
Kelryn continued, oblivious. "But I can’t marry you."