Unconsciously, Nightfall kneaded the stone through the fabric of his tunic. Nothing could compare with the freedom it would buy him, a life to start over without ties or bonds to fools; and, more importantly, without a wizard controlling his soul. Yet the responsibilities would not wholly disappear. Nightfall had thought long and hard about his relationship with Edward, had already promised himself he would either see the landing through or escort him safely home. He had not dragged the gentle, young innocent to the far side of the continent to abandon him to every schemer who saw silver in theft, scam, or kidnapping. Whatever the boy’s father had forced Nightfall to do by magic did not reflect on Edward. The prince deserved to see the godly side, not the demon side, of a squire he had treated well. And Nightfall found satisfaction in the consternation it would cost King Rikard and Gilleran to receive back the idealist unharmed with no way to catch or follow the master criminal they had once held prisoner. Let them sweat in their beds every night wondering when the knife will come.
Nightfall slipped from the main pathway into a short, black alleyway between a house marked as the tailor’s and another that bore no distinguishing features. It seemed strange to moralize, especially over a spoiled prince and a situation that had started as a torture. Yet when acting as other than Nightfall, he had considered the right path on a daily basis. Those nights he handled the evil needs and desires of his demon side left him free to become more prudent at other times and in other guise.
Nightfall pressed his back against the tailor’s home, concentrating on the area around him, though the Magebane’s gift and the reprieve it promised struggled to usurp all other thought. His ears and eyes told him that no one had come close enough to intrude on his moment. He was alone. Pulling the stone from his pocket, he clasped it tightly into his palm. It felt warm, though whether from some inherent magic or from absorbing the heat of his grasp, he could not guess. A red glow leeched through the cracks between his fingers, and Nightfall knew a tingle of joy. Apparently, Brandon Magebane was not a hoax or a crazy but all that he claimed. As instructed, Nightfall concentrated on the oath-bond.
Sudden pain exploded through Nightfall, and he lost all control of his limbs. He collapsed, doubling over, trying to escape agony that came wholly from within. He clung to his last abstraction, the oath-bond, little caring whether the anguish came from the stone or from the death throes of the magic. He would not lose the focus of the Magebane’s gift. Nightfall managed to heave to his hands and knees, realizing as he did that the pain was fading. Now, he could separate the faint tremor of Brandon’s talent from the too familiar prickle of the oath-bond. The latter had caused the pain and also chosen to quiet again. Apparently, it had risen against the threat and conquered. From all he had heard, the stone should have worked immediately, yet the oath-bond remained.
Nightfall froze, failure a shock and a terror at once. He kept calm, working through the problem logically, surmising several possible explanations. He hoped the oath-bond had gone, its buzz his imagination or an aftereffect that might gradually disappear. He tested it cautiously, picturing himself never returning to Prince Edward. He felt no reprisal. Excitement built; it seemed he truly had become free. That realization caused him to consider the prospect of abandoning Edward more seriously. The moment he did, the oath-bond leapt to life, spearing a warning through his chest that drove him to miss a breath. The stone’s power had misfired, though whether from technicality or weakness, Nightfall did not know.
Nightfall rose, assessing the situation. In the tavern in Noshtillan, the man Brandon had called Gatiwan had assured Nightfall that he had never seen the Magebane’s talent or his stones fail. Every time a sorcerer threw a spell, either Brandon or one of his followers with an empowered stone negated it. It now occurred to Nightfall that those who chose to hunt with Brandon probably had talents of their own they kept well-hidden. Who would have more cause to hate sorcerers than the natally gifted? With their powers curtailed and against several others with abilities, a weak sorcerer or one without a fast means of escape would fare poorly.
Having played both sides of many situations, Nightfall felt no pity for the sorcerers. Forever, they had preyed on the innocent, catching the talented as infants or children when possible, when they were an easy fight and less likely to understand the danger of displaying such abilities. Brandon and his people killed, but sorcerers tortured and enslaved. Those who lived by murder usually accepted that violence would end their existences as well. He had expected nothing different for himself, only wondered which way and which time the guard forces and bands of citizens would take him.
Nightfall considered the cause of the stone’s failure. He sifted the three plausible possibilities from an endless procession of unlikely ones. Either Brandon had lied, Nightfall had invoked the item incorrectly, or the oath-bond had proven stronger than the stone could handle. The first and last he could do nothing about, so he considered the second in more detail. The glow suggested he had, at least, begun the maneuver in the proper manner. Brandon had told him to concentrate on the source of the magic and Nightfall had taken that to mean the oath-bond itself, although the Magebane and his hunters, according to Gatiwan, directed their power at the sorcerer hurling the spell.
Again, Nightfall pressed his back to the wall, this time crouching so a fall would not prove as painful. His senses still indicated he was alone. Once more, he clutched the stone in his palm so tightly its roughness gouged his flesh. Red light bled through the lines where his fingers met. Nightfall directed his focus to Gilleran, recalling the sorcerer at the time he cast the spell, in vivid detail. The oath-bond remained at a level just above baseline, nagging that Nightfall was leaving Edward alone too long, no longer seeing his attempt to break it as a threat. Its quiescence seemed to mock Nightfall, to insinuate that his puny efforts at escape no longer bothered it. The red glow still bathed his fingers, without even a tinge of the blue Brandon claimed would indicate the stone was functioning.
Nightfall closed his eyes, concentrating on Gilleran until his fingers ached from being clenched too long. The stone remained red, dulling as his grip loosened. The oath-bond still throbbed a steady chorus, taunting with its vibrancy; and frustration lanced to sudden rage. Nightfall slammed the stone back into his pocket, seized by an urge to pound the wall until it crumbled or his fist became mangled and bloodied. He did not translate the image into action, forcing contentment with the thought alone. He guessed the agony he had suffered came from the oath-bond striking back when it feared he might escape it. Once it realized Brandon’s magic could not dispel it, it had settled back, uncaring. Apparently, Brandon had given him a faulty stone or else his ability only worked against magic in the casting. Perhaps, once set, the spell would no longer yield to the Magebane’s talent.
Nightfall headed back toward the main road, feeling all the more trapped for his failure. He channeled the need to violently dispel his rage into determination. That lesson of Dyfrin’s he had learned welclass="underline" to wait out storms of emotion and act only with deliberate thought. Though he had heard of others who worked their scams or murders best in a wild fog of rage or a drug-induced frenzy, he considered them fools. He had done nothing blinded or driven by emotion, whether love or anger, that he did not regret. That was why he would not listen to Kelryn’s explanation, not until he felt certain he could hear without love lulling him into believing the absurd or lies goading him to slaughter.