Nightfall did not move, head lowered, a curtain of hair hiding his face and making him seem more harmless child than demon.
The benign image unnerved the king more than the hostile glances they had exchanged in the dungeon. He cleared his throat, delaying to keep anything but command from entering his tone. "Very well, then. If you go straight back to your room and stay there, I’ll send an escort for you in the morning." Finally, he spotted the means to regain the edge in their unofficial spar for dominance. He raised the glass of wine Nightfall had just poured and took a long sip. Though a simple action, it displayed his disdain for Nightfall’s dangerousness, reminding him that the oath-bond left him unable to poison Rikard or any of his entourage.
Nightfall raised his head, a flicker in his eyes all that revealed acknowledgment of the king’s bold gesture. Without another word, he headed toward the exit.
Nightfall awakened early the following morning, preparing himself for travel with an ease that seemed a mockery of his previous routine. He searched the room for loose fixtures. King Rikard had promised to fully out-fit him with traveling gear and weapons, but old habits would not die. His pockets, he knew, held several hand-kerchiefs and the sapphire ring he had stolen from Raven’s captain. He knelt, examining the only chair. It stood steady, its legs composed of neatly rounded and sanded bars. Four support dowels spanned the distance between them. Aware the chair would still balance missing two or three of the inner rods, Nightfall pulled them apart and secreted one in his pocket. Rising, he took the smaller mirror and the brush as well.
Satisfied, Nightfall crouched on the pallet to await the escort who would introduce him to Ned. He wondered how the prince would look and act, but he did not dwell on the thought or waste time forming a mental image. Soon enough, he would meet his master. Preconceived notions served no purpose. His thoughts could not change Ned’s appearance or attitudes; they could only mislead him.
Again, Nightfall let his mind wander to Dyfrin and his last lecture before business had led them in opposite directions: “Marak, you’ve got to make yourself another friend sometime. It’s not that hard, and it’s worth the trouble. First, treat everyone-lord, lady, idiot, or slave-as an equal. Power and knowledge live in unexpected places. Second, never lend your coppers, but give them freely. Few things make friendship faster than kindness and nothing destroys it quicker than obligations. And lastly, never give a man reason to doubt your loyalty."
I followed your advice, Dyfrin. I found a friend, and look where it got me. Nightfall lowered his head, mind suddenly filled with Kelryn’s visage. His hands balled to fists, and the vision disappeared beneath a red veil of rage. Befriending her cost me my freedom, my dignity, decades of perfecting identities, nearly my life, and possibly my soul. Trusting in no one had spared Nightfall the pain that his mother had inflicted through his childhood, the mixed messages of love and brutality, the compliments that, in the same breath, twisted into belittling insults and shouted obscenities. Loyalty unreturned is only service. Money unreturned is simply stolen. And I’ll treat a man as an equal the day he outwits me. Anyone who can’t is nothing more than a victim waiting to be parted from his riches. A smile touched his lips, every bit as cruel as Chancellor Gilleran’s. Whatever else I accomplish in my jive months of freedom, I will make Kelryn regret her betrayal. She won’t cross me or anyone else again.
A knock on the door dispelled Nightfall’s train of thought. A man’s voice wafted from the hallway beyond. "Sudian?" He did not wait for confirmation. "I’ve been told to take you to Prince Edward."
Nightfall sprang from the pallet and crossed the room, taking one last glimpse of the stranger in the mirror as he passed. He straightened his breeks, readjusted his tabard, and opened the door.
A middle-aged steward confronted him. The man’s dark eyes rolled downward as he glanced over his charge, then returned to Nightfall’s face. His chin tilted upward, his disdain tangible; he was obviously unimpressed with what he saw.
In the last twenty years, Nightfall had had little experience with this sort of treatment in the guise of Nightfall, his reputation and appearance inspired terror at worst and, more often, grudging respect.
"Come with me." The steward turned, gesturing to Nightfall to follow.
Nightfall trailed the steward in silence, making a game of noting the myriad openings the man left for his own murder. Having exhausted imagining the objects in his own pockets as the weapons, Nightfall quietly identified the steward’s belongings through creases and bulges in his clothing. When the steward paused beneath an ornate chandelier, the support for which spanned the wall near Nightfall’s hand, the oath-bonded squire found suppressing his laughter all but impossible. And, by the time they exited into the courtyard, Nightfall had relieved his guide of two pocket knives, a pouch of silver, a under-box, his wedding band, and a candle molded in the shape of a frog. Nightfall was just considering removing the man’s vest without his knowledge when the doors swung open and the activity in the king’s courtyard seized his attention.
The oath-bond seemed to shudder, aching within him. Men in servants’ livery scurried between three horses, heaping packs and objects onto a rangy dark chestnut and a sturdy bay mare. The third horse, a white gelding, carried only one bundle behind its jeweled saddle. It pawed the ground repeatedly, tossing its head in sudden bursts that sent the groom clutching its halter into a staggering dance.
Nightfall disliked the pale riding horse at once. Like many animals chosen for beauty, it had few manners, and its beacon coloring and grandeur would preclude evasive actions and draw the eye of every highwayman. Might just as well paint "I’m wealthy; please rob me" across its side. Another thought surfaced. That’d actually be safer. Most bandits can’t read.
Several paces from the activity, King Rikard stood amid a half-dozen nobles. Beside him, Chancellor Gilleran watched the bustle with his arms folded across his chest, his face its usual empty mask. One broad-shouldered youth wore a mail hauberk and leather leggings beneath a meticulously pressed purple surcoat and a silver cape. A broad sword graced his belt. A helmet dangled from one gloved hand. Golden hair covered his head, sheening white, every lock neatly combed and tended. Round, pink cheeks betrayed him as a teenager, yet his thick frame bore no trace of adolescent gawkiness. Still, trained to notice subtleties, Nightfall recognized a mild tremor of excitement and an uncertainty to the youngster’s motions that would smooth with age and experience. Only the straight line of a healing scar across the prince’s face marred the picture. The other three nobles were strangers to Nightfall.
King Rikard glanced in Nightfall’s direction. A welcoming smile flashed across his features and disappeared before he turned to the youth in mail and said something Nightfall could not hear. King and prince looked toward him together. Breaking from the group, they headed in his direction. Rikard’s face held an expression of discomfort and warning.
Idly, Nightfall wondered whether the king anticipated trouble from Edward or himself and dismissed the thought as unimportant. Magic seemed to tingle and churn within him, as real as the shouted commands and scattered conversations around him. In the king’s presence, Nightfall had no choice but to endear himself to Prince Edward.