Questioning had also brought forth details about a handful of suitors, the most promising a wealthy goldsmith called Hoson. Depending on whom he chose to believe, the couple had sustained an off and on relationship for two years, they were madly in love, or they had been spotted together periodically. In all cases, however, his name came up before that of any other potential future baron.
They continued toward Schiz amid a light drizzle, the clop of hooves a soothing, steady beat beneath Kelryn’s and Edward’s conversation. Until he visited the bar in Noshtillan, Nightfall had forgotten how quickly rumors spread in the south. Already, several people had recognized him as the squire of the prince attacked by a sorcerer. He had had to suffer through a dozen folk remedies for thwarting magic, many of which were the same as those he had heard homewomen used to protect their families from the demon, Nightfall. Yet one significant possibility had come even from that distraction. A travel-stained warrior alone in the corner of the bar had mentioned a friend who lived in Schiz. Called Brandon Magebane, the Schizian had proclaimed a personal crusade against users of magic and their murders. Apparently, he had a natal talent he did not bother to hide, one that allowed him to disenchant spells and, on rare occasions, to place this same power into objects for others to use. According to the traveler, the Magebane would spend a year or two concentrating his ability into stones or coins, enough to give his companions each a few defenses. Then, they would actively hunt a sorcerer.
That conversation preoccupied Nightfall as they headed toward the country of Schiz. Brandon’s Noshtillian friend had just returned from such a venture, this one unsuccessful. It meant the Magebane’s companions had used their special stones. From experience, Nightfall knew that natal talents used on oneself cost little in time or effort, just a moment of thought. Apparently, however, those who could direct their abilities against others or into items required more elaborate procedures, limited by fatigue. It might take two months or longer for Brandon to construct another of his disenchanting items, but the man Nightfall met in Noshtillan believed his partner might still have one or two stones left over from the previous pursuit. He had suggested Nightfall might purchase those remaining to help protect his master.
At the time and now, Nightfall’s thoughts sprang off in a different direction. If he could attain one of those precious, perfect stones, he could use it to free himself from the oath-bond. He smiled, the expression seeming unnatural through all the pain, physical and emotional, he had suffered or inflicted in the last few days. Free, he could start his life over, unburdened by the responsibility of guarding and directing an idealist in a venal world who flaunted money in front of thieves and begged the company of traitors Free, he could leave Sudian and the enemy sorcerer behind, as dead as his many personae. Free, he could become someone else again. Who, he did not know nor what trade he would take. He felt certain only that he had no wish to return to what he had once been.
This consideration followed him through the day of travel that brought them to the duke’s city of Schiz. Narrow streets glazed with evening gray forced Nightfall to ride behind his master and their companion, and the horse traffic drove pedestrians to the storefronts. Nightfall chose the cheaper of Schiz’ two inns for its proximity to the goldsmith’s shop, though his reasons seemed unclear even to himself. Once free, he no longer needed to work at landing Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, and the information gleaned to accomplish that mission no longer mattered. Once again, he would completely rewrite his obligations and loyalties, this time in any manner he chose. First, he believed, he would locate Dyfrin and repay a long overdue debt of gratitude to the only person in his life who had helped him for no other reason than kindness and no thought of reward.
The He-Ain’t-Here Tavern was a red stone building near the western edge of town with a paddock for guest horses in lieu of a stable and a handful of rooms for rent. Nightfall knew every detail of its interior. As the merchant, Balshaz, he had found need to travel to Schiz only infrequently and had stayed in the more upper class inn farther south. As polio-stricken Frihiat, a Schizian odd-jobber, he had routinely spent his coppers in the tavern, buying drinks for friends when he found steady employment. Well-liked for his story-telling ability, he could usually drink even when his own purse emptied to lint.
Nightfall stripped the tack, placing it carefully into the nearby hut with its rings and wooden stands for this purpose. He over-tipped the servant on duty, as usual, hoping for a competent cleaning of their gear as well as the youngster’s goodwill. Money came easily to an able thief, and Dyfrin had taught him to share his riches, at least, very well. Risking his life in the name of trust or kindness seemed another thing altogether. Every man and woman had a price. If he could meet it with money, he saw no need to bother with anything else.
Nightfall loosed the three horses into the paddock. They entered cautiously, whuffling the scent of strangers sharing their pasture. The bay set straight to grazing, and its calm soon spread to the chestnut. The black horse ate also. Still adjusting to its own companions, the black trumpeted a warning. The other five animals in the corral bolted, circling the fences in a wild run that Prince Edward’s horses joined.
Nightfall watched the casual but powerful pump of leg muscles as the horses charged playfully around the paddock before settling into a herd. He yawned. The sleepless turmoil of the previous night exhausted him, and it made more sense for him to speak with the Magebane early, before Kelryn or Edward missed him. With the common room at its busiest, Ritworth would not dare to attack. So far, he had only come for them when he believed them alone, trapped or weaponless. By heading out alone in the dusk, Nightfall placed his own person at far more risk than the prince.
The oath-bond remained quiet, apparently satisfied with the assessment. Nightfall trotted through familiar streets, unused to watching the scenery pass so quickly. Frihiat’s affected limp had slowed his pace to a restful coast that forced him to notice minutiae. Though in the guise of Frihiat less often than many of his other aliases, he had learned the streets and byways of Schiz so much better. Within a few turns, he came to the cottage the traveler had named as belonging to the Magebane.
Nightfall studied it for clues to the man who dwelt within. It looked exactly like so many other wood and thatch cottages, except for the delicate brown stain he had used to protect, seal, and beautify the construction. A chaotic jumble of flowers sprouted from beds on either side of the doorway, and straight rows of vegetation filled the rectangular area between his home and the one behind it. Nightfall surmised that, when it came to important matters, he would find Brandon Magebane as competent as his food garden, as frenetic as his flowers when it came to play.
Nightfall approached the door with more trepidation than he expected. His soul rode on the Magebane’s talent, but only in a positive sense. If he got the trinket, he gained everything. If he did not, then nothing changed. He paused before the door in thought, trying to decide his course of action should he succeed in breaking free of Gilleran’s binding. He wanted to run, free as a horse unlocked from too long a stay in a dark, dusty stable. But his conscience would not let him. Much as he hated the concept, he could no longer escape the realization that his tie to Edward had grown beyond the limits of the sorcerer’s magic. He would not remain a servant, but he would see Edward landed, if possible, or safely home. He would do it, not out of obligation, but from friendship.