The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Pretending to admire the flowers, Nightfall steered Edward gradually and casually beneath Willafrida’s window, raising the lantern to give her a solid glimpse of features he felt certain would not disappoint her. In truth, it seemed nearly unbelievable to Nightfall that some woman had not already snatched Edwards hand and heart. Yet, he knew that royalty had stricter rules about such things. They became eligible at an older age, and the station of both parties played a large role in the matter. Edward, it seemed, had only just left his coddled nursery, whether it consisted of toys and nannies or books, practices, and stewards. Were it not such a cruel joke on Edward, Nightfall might have steered the prince toward a romance with Kelryn, if only to pay back Rikard for the oath-bond. A whore for a daughter-in-law might serve him right.

  Nightfall’s current abstraction made him distinctly uncomfortable for reasons that had nothing to do with the oath-bond’s low-level hum, so he turned his thoughts elsewhere. They had tarried long enough. The next move belonged to Willafrida.

  "Very nice," Edward said, the lack of expression suggesting politeness rather than interest. "I’m certain they’re beautiful when the blooms open. In the day. We’ll come back when it’s light with Kelryn."

  "Good idea, Master.” Nightfall turned to head back in the direction from which they had come.

  Before Edward could follow, a sultry voice wafted from above. "Hello, Ned."

  The prince stiffened, obviously startled. His head whipped upward, and he squinted through the darkness. Willafrida’s face poked through the window, and Nightfall could make out the regular hatchwork of the rope ladder he had left grappled to her window.

  "Hello, Ned." Willafrida repeated.

  "Hello, fair Lady," Edward returned in his usual friendly manner.

  Before honesty drove Edward to say anything about not knowing her, Nightfall whispered the information the prince needed. “Willafrida. The duke’s heir."

  Edward nodded slightly to indicate he had received the message. "What can I do for you tonight, Lady?"

  "Are you, in fact, a prince of Alyndar?"

  “I am," Edward admitted.

  "Come up and talk with me, Prince Ned."

  Edward glanced at Nightfall, who bobbed his head encouragingly. "Go," Nightfall whispered. "I’m fine, and I’ll take care of Kelryn." The oath-bond flared slightly, though he reassured it and himself that he had no intention of straying far from Edward, his only obligation to Kelryn revenge.

  "I’ll be there shortly," Edward called back to the duchess-heir. He headed away.

  Surprised by the sudden change in direction, Nightfall caught up to Edward. “Where are you going, Master?"

  Edward stopped, features crinkled, obviously confused by the question. "To call on her, of course, Sudian. What did you think?"

  Nightfall kept his voice low. "Master, I think she wants to have a secret meeting. I think she wants you to go in through there." He made a subtle gesture with his head to indicate the window. He held the lantern so as to reveal the hemp resting among the ivy.

  Prince Edward followed the direction of the gesture, finally noticing the ladder. "Oh," he said, then, more carefully, "Oh. All right, then." He hesitated. This obviously did not fit his image of propriety, though neither did refusing the request of a young, female noble. With a shrug, he strode to the base of the wall, caught the rope, and clambered to the window. Willafrida met him at the top and helped him inside.

  Grinning like a slave served his master’s dinner, Nightfall put out the lantern, settled his back against the wall, and waited in the shadows.

  Prince Edward flushed, feeling like a sneak thief breaking into Alyndar’s castle. The duchess-heir’s room seemed strange and feminine; veils, canopies, and the heavy scent of oils, spice, and flowers only adding to its exotic air. The furniture and smells reminded him of his mother’s private room, where she had gone to spend quiet time alone, away from his father as well as the hustle and responsibility of queendom. Flowers always perfumed the spring or summer breezes wafting through the window, and he had come to associate ginger and deprim with her. She had always welcomed him, even into her special chambers; and there she had taught him the gentleness and breeding behind the many rules his nannies made him memorize. She would have encouraged him to treat Willafrida with politeness and dignity.

  Willafrida smiled at Edward, her silky gown hugging the ample curves. His mother had carried extra weight, too, though it had settled at the belly and breasts rather than the lower regions. He had never considered her anything but beautiful, and her happy carriage did not imply she believed herself otherwise. Nevertheless, she used mirrors without gawking and never lorded her looks over anyone. Now, Edward could see the inner quarters of Willafrida’s breasts and make out the nipples impressing the fabric. His eighteen-year-old body responded without input from his mind, and the lust without love embarrassed him. He imagined she could see his excitement through the fabric of breeks and tunic, and he self-consciously pulled his cloak closed.

  "You’re as handsome as your servant promised," Willafrida said, admiring his face and body as he studied her.

  The words confused Edward. "You spoke with my squire?"

  "Yes," she said. “He said you were shy."

  Edward had never heard that particular word applied to him before. In fact, he had been scolded for boldness and discarding convention for cause so often, the description nearly made him laugh. Yet, in truth, around women, he did display some quiet uncertainty. "Yes, well. He’s a good and loyal servant."

  "So I’d gathered? Willafrida smiled flirtatiously.

  Edward felt a knot form in his gut. The idea of leaving seemed pleasant but rude. The comment required no response, but politeness deemed it his turn to speak. If he could not continue the thread of the current discussion, he had the obligation to turn to trivial talk until a new subject was broached. However, before he could find even a minor topic, she took over again.

  "You’re going to the Tylantian contests?" Willafrida gestured him to sit beside her.

  "Yes, I guess I am." Edward perched on the edge as invited, uncomfortable intruding on a woman’s sleeping pallet. "My squire talked me into it."

  "He’s good at that, isn’t he?"

  "Good at what?"

  "Talking people into things."

  “Sometimes," Edward returned, finding the duchess-heir’s comment strange, an obvious attempt at conversation that seemed awkward to him.

  "Six of my suitors are already there, trying to win a duchy."

  "That hardly seems necessary." Edward glanced around to indicate the citadel. "You have one already. Why would they need to win you another?"

  Willafrida shrugged then smiled, lowering her eyes modestly. "I’m nobility, but most of them are just gentry. I think they want at least as high a title as me. You can understand that."

  Prince Edward nodded, without commitment. He did not see why station should matter to a man and woman who loved one another. "I suppose so, Lady."

  "You wouldn’t have to enter the contests to get a title, of course."

  "No, Lady, I wouldn’t," To Edward, the conversation seemed inane, but he stuck with it, seeing merit in learning to chat with women. He wondered if all conversations with the fairer sex would prove as tedious and realized he already had the answer. He had loved spending hours with his mother, discussing emotions and aspirations, reading stories and poetry. His conversations with Kelryn seemed to flow as easily, and the thought of her made him grin. His first meeting with her had proven even more awkward. His throat had closed down, making words impossible, and it had taken all of his sense of honor to tear his gaze from her near-naked beauty. From that moment, he had known she was special. Though he hated the idea that Ritworth the Iceman menaced her as well as him, he had appreciated the excuse and necessity it had created. The injury that marred her grace made him cringe every time she walked, but it had given her reason to quit dancing for a time and join them. And her fast and eager acceptance o
f his invitation suggested that maybe, just maybe, she had some feelings for him in return.

  ". . . a prince need to do so?"

  Prince Edward started from his reverie, embarrassed that he had let thoughts of a woman preoccupy him so much he had become rude to another. Though he had not heard most of her question, he could divine the rest. If he guessed wrong, he hoped she would attribute his error to misinterpretation rather than inattentiveness. “I’m the younger prince. I have no claim to Alyndar’s throne, kingdom, or lands. I need to establish myself elsewhere, and Tylantis’ duchy will serve that need well." Edward gave the proper response by nature, and the doubts did not come until after he spoke the last word. "But mostly I’m going for the camaraderie and the thrill of competition. I have little hope I’ll win."

  That attitude clearly surprised Willafrida as boastful certainty seemed a much more common conviction among highborn. For the first time, it took her several moments to formulate a reply. Before she did, someone knocked on the door, the sound deep and reverberating. Edward stiffened, naturally leaping to his feet. Willafrida clasped her hands in her lap and turned her head toward the sound. "Who is it?"

  A solid bass wafted through the panel. "It’s Milnar, Lady. Is everything all right in there?”

  "Everything is fine, Milnar," she called back. "I’m just getting ready for bed."

  "Very well, Lady Willafrida. I’m sorry I disturbed you." Heavy footsteps retreated down the corridor at a rapid pace.

  Willafrida returned her attention to Edward. "A guard. They check on me all the time." She patted the bed, indicating Edward should sit again. "You were just telling me you have no claim to Alyndar’s throne."

  Prince Edward considered excuses for leaving now, but none seemed good enough this early in the conversation. Apparently, she had called him up only to chat and get to know him. It was way too soon to know whether or not they would prove compatible. "My brother, Leyne. He’s the crown prince.”

  Willafrida made a wordless noise to indicate interest. The intensity of the sound suggested fascination with the brother rather than the conversation. Her next question enforced the impression. "Is he married?"

  “No."

  "How old?"

  "Twenty-six.”

  Finally, Willafrida turned the conversation back to Edward. "And you?"

  “I’m not married either. And I’m eighteen."

  Willafrida frowned, obviously surprised at the numbers.

  Edward guessed the duchess-heir had a few years on him and it bothered her. Usually, noblewomen married men a few years older or sometimes, in the case of an aging ruler without an heir, decades older. He hoped age differences did not matter too much to women, not because of Willafrida but because of Kelryn. Conversation, comments overheard, and appearance indicated the dancer was a few years older even than Willafrida. Edward’s mother had taught him emotion took first precedence; and, for all his father’s wealth and power, she had married for love. She had come from a rich family, and status had never held attraction for her. She more often escaped than embraced the duties of being queen.

  "Does your brother look like you?”

  Edward pictured Leyne. He had never thought much about comparing appearances, although he had always envied his brother’s shrewd eyes and knowledge of court procedure. "In a general sense, I guess. He’s bigger than me, and he’s got dark eyes."

  Willafrida’s gaze roved up and down Edward’s tall, firm frame as if to imagine someone larger.

  The prince assisted the image. "Not taller, just more muscular. He’s the one to watch at the Tylantian contests. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t win.”

  "Why would the crown prince of Alyndar need an eastern duchy?"

  "My brother surrender a chance to pit his weapon skill against some of the best fighters on the continent?" Edward shrugged. "He’d sooner give up food. Besides, my father is strong and healthy. If Leyne waited for him to die before gaining land and status, he might not do so until his own sons became ready to take the throne." He added jokingly, "Assuming he ever marries, of course."

  “Of course," Willafrida repeated, pensive.

  The door knob rattled, echoing through the chamber. Before Edward could think to move, the door swung open. A portly, frizzle-haired gentleman approaching seventy stood in the entry, flanked by three guards in Schizian bronze and black.

  "Father!” Willafrida sprang to her feet, the sudden movement nearly knocking Edward to the floor.

  Prince Edward recaptured his balance and rose politely for introductions.

  "What?" the duke stammered. "How?"

  “I can explain," Willafrida started, but the duke gestured her silent.

  "I don’t want to hear from you right now. Go to your bed."

  Willafrida hesitated.

  “Go!"

  She went, and the duke’s attention locked on the approaching prince. "Stand where you are!"

  Edward stopped, halfway across the chamber.

  “Who are you, young man?"

  Prince Edward bowed respectfully. “Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, sir."

  The title barely seemed to impress the duke. "What were you doing in my daughter’s bedroom.”

  "Talking, sir." Edward glanced over at Willafrida who had skittered to the center of her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest.

  "Talking‘?" the duke repeated. "Talking! You sneak into my daughter’s locked bedroom like some common assassin and have the nerve to tell me you were talking?"

  "We were talking," Edward said again, not entirely certain of the answer the duke wanted or, more likely, expected.

  "Prince or other, no man despoils my daughter’s body and reputation. My physician can determine whether you’ve seduced my daughter and ruined her for decent marriage. But first, I will give you a chance to state your intentions."

  Humiliation turned Edward’s cheeks red. He knew some relief as well. He had done nothing wrong or disrespectful to the duchess-heir, and surely the physician’s examination would reveal that.

  The duke went straight to the point. "Prince Edward, do you plan to marry my daughter?"

  "Marry her?" Edward repeated, trying to make sense of the words. "Marry Willafrida?"

  "Do you plan to marry my daughter?"

  Edward replied honestly. "Well, no, sir."

  The duke’s face darkened to purple. He gestured to his guards. "Take him away and lock him up." He turned on his heel and strode from the room as the guards advanced.

  Edward did not resist.

  The booming voice of the Duke of Schiz and the wail of the oath-bond aroused Nightfall from a half-doze. He scrambled up the ladder, watching in stunned silence while the duke’s guardsmen arrested his prince for no more reason than entering his daughter’s bedroom. The situation made no sense to Nightfall. His mother’s nightly strings of bedtime clients had ill-prepared him for considering the mere act of being found in a woman’s sleeping chamber a crime serious enough to deserve jailing. Yet Edward’s quiet acceptance of his punishment suggested guilt.

  Nightfall waited only until the guardsmen closed the door behind themselves and Edward. He listened for the sounds of returning footsteps and heard nothing over the ear-filling clamor of the oath-bond. Finally, he slithered through the window and to the side of Willafrida’s bed, resisting the urge to clutch his stomach in agony. The oath-bond felt like a burning knife, twisting through his guts. "Where’s your dungeon?"

  Willafrida stiffened, obviously not noticing the intruder until he spoke. “Our dungeon? It’s deep. Below the ground floor. But why?"

  Nightfall suspected he might have only a few moments before the duke returned to confront his daughter alone. He stumbled from the room, batting the door without bothering to see if it fully closed. Willafrida could handle that. He had graver matters to attend.

  "Sudian, wait." Willafrida’s desperate whisper chased him down the corridor, but Nightfall dared not stop. Movement toward the goal of rescuing Edward dimmed the oath-
bond’s alarm enough to let him function. If he turned back, he felt certain it would overwhelm him, driving him to twitch and writhe until it robbed him of soul as well as vigor. Finding the hallway empty, he charged toward a corner tower at random. He hit the door running, scarcely managing to trip the latch as he did so. The panel slammed open, crashing into a waiting guardsman so hard it sent him tumbling down the stairs, armor ringing against stone.

  Nightfall cursed his lack of caution and his luck. Obviously, the guard had not expected trouble from the second story and so had positioned himself to block the exit from an intruder coming from below. Seeing no merit to trying to find another stairway now, Nightfall pounded down the steps, the oath-bond seething. On the next landing, he found the fallen guard sprawled, another crouched at his side. Glad for the distraction, Nightfall charged past, leaping down the stone stairway into the gloom below.

  The conscious guard shouted. "Hey! You there!" He changed his tactic to a warning to those below. "Intruder headed down! Enemy on the stairs!"

  Nightfall landed with his usual cat lightness, the oath-bond too persistent to allow him to use his talent to further soften the fall. He crouched, assessing the scene at a glance. Two guards blocked the pathway between two sets of three cells flush with the wall. The cages’ barred sides rose into roofs that ended five hands’ lengths from the stone ceiling that served as the floor to the level above. After the last pair of cells, the pathway ended and shorter branchways headed off in each direction, in turn ending at the walls. Only one figure occupied a cell, the farthest one on the right. Nightfall did not pause long enough to conclusively identify the prisoner. He raced down the walk.

  In response to their companions’ warning, the two guards in the dungeon rushed forward. Nightfall darted through the gap between them. Both grabbed for him at once. One missed cleanly. The other caught a grip on his cloak. Arching his shoulders, Nightfall let the fabric slip free and continued running. Behind him, he could hear the guards calling strategies that seemed obvious. They would prove far more hunched and ready for his escape than they had been for his sudden entrance. Nightfall did not care. The closer he got to the prisoner he felt certain was Edward Nargol, the more the pain faded. He skidded around the corner, peering through the bars.