The Return of Nightfall (15 page)

“Good men, all of them. Slaughtered defending him.”

Tenneth paused in midstep, and another shiver traversed him. “All of them?”

Elliat sighed. “Every one.”

Heads bowed around the table, and the conversation lapsed to silence. Tenneth closed his eyes in a quiet prayer to the Holy Father to watch over good men’s souls. Then, he swung around to resume his pacing.

“Except one.” Lord Admiral Nikolei Neerchus spoke in a low-pitched voice resembling a growl.

Tired of learning the details one by one, Tenneth snatched up the parchment from in front of the general. Immaculately penned in a strong, flowing script, it read:

Tenneth dropped the parchment in front of his own seat. “Is it possible . . . ?” He could barely comprehend the idea. “Could the duke be behind such a terrible . . . ?” Unable to finish, he looked askance at the baron.

“Varsah?” Elliat shook his head, frowning. “Angry, perhaps. Greedy. But murder and kidnapping?” The corners of his mouth twitched farther downward, leaving a tract of creases across his chin and brow. “I don’t see it.”

The only one who had not read the parchment, Alber claimed it now.

“Madness.” General Simont’s gaze followed the message. “If he wished to claim credit for the atrocity, he would have done so. If he wanted to hide it, he would not have allowed it to occur within the borders of Schiz.”

Alber spoke in his usual soft manner. He did not usually say much; when he did, they all listened despite the volume. “A greedy, guilty man would not return gold and jewels within his right to keep.”

Tenneth nodded. “You’re right, Alber. He would have waited until after his meeting with His Majesty, once he wheedled as many concessions as the young king would spare.”

Elliat clearly also agreed. “If he were corrupt enough to murder guardsmen and take a king, he’d have found a way to keep the offering, even if he had not yet met with young Ned. At the least, he could have claimed the same fiends stole it.”

The admiral slammed his fist on the table again. “This is utter nonsense! I know Varsah, and he’s anything but stupid. I have no doubt at all he’s innocent, and we should honor his suspicions.”

Tenneth saw where this was going.“You mean Sudian?”

“Of course, Sudian.” Simont’s dark eyes turned icy. “I’ve never trusted that scoundrel.”

Elliat presented the other side, “King Edward trusts him, not wholly without cause. And King Rikard—”

The admiral interrupted in a voice so loud it seemed to pierce the walls. “King Rikard trusted that bastard Gilleran too. Twenty-some years that sorcerer whispered his poison in the king’s ear, longer than our current king has been alive.”

Nikolei did not need to finish. They all knew how that had ended, with Alyndar’s greatest king bleeding great gouts of blood on the chapel floor, his head shattered into glasslike fragments by Gilleran’s ice spell. Nearby sat the gold-inlaid coffin holding the remains of Crown Prince Leyne, killed in tourney, also at the whim of Gilleran’s magic. Edward, too, would have died that day if not for Sudian’s interference. Given time to hide the evidence, Gilleran might even have perched upon the throne of Alyndar, gleefully stealing the lives and talents of the natally gifted, adding to his own power until no one could have stopped him.

Softly, Alber reminded them, “Sudian saved Edward’s life and killed the sorcerer.”

Tenneth remembered. They all did. Nevertheless, he considered the possibilities. Nikolei had made an excellent point regarding Gilleran, who had worked his way into the king’s trust and the same position of power by also appearing selflessly loyal. “At the time, Sudian was only a squire. He needed an act that grand to earn his promotion to a position of ultimate trust.”

Alber tented his fingers over the parchment. “But he could have died. Should have. What would that have gained him?”

“Should have,” Nikolei repeated, raising his craggy head. “But didn’t.” His eyes became wary slits. “Just how did he survive that fall anyway?”

It was a long-standing debate. Most believed the Almighty Father had intervened, slowing Sudian’s fall to reward him for protecting the sacred line of kings. Had Gilleran succeeded in slaughtering Edward along with his father and brother, the bloodline of the Nargols would have ended that day. Less religious folk attributed Sudian’s survival to the tree branches he had seized to slow his landing, to the dumb luck of landing on top of Gilleran, or to a combination of both.

No one spoke any of the tired arguments now, but Nikolei raised a new one. “Only magic could have saved him.” He lowered his wheaten head, hatred clearly stamped across his features. “What do we know about Sudian’s past, anyway? Is it possible we have another sorcerer for a chancellor?”

From his studies, Tenneth knew events in history had a habit of recurring. Both of the warrior commanders had expressed their distrust of and dislike for Sudian in the past. Edward’s well-known exuberance and unsophisticated innocence in combination with Sudian’s suspiciously excessive loyalty raised troubling doubts about the chancellor’s long-term intentions. “That’s an excellent question, Admiral. What exactly do we know about Sudian’s past?”

“Not much,” Elliat said, head bobbing at the implications.

“Then,” Simont finished with warrior finality. “It’s time we find out what we can.”

The Sharius
rocked gently over the swells of the Klaimer Ocean, under the smooth control of her crew. Though he had decided to spend most of the trip in his quarters, Nightfall found the actual execution of this plan unbearable. Alone, he brooded, worrying about rescuing the missing king without the proper information or any known direction. He felt helpless, which drove him to terrible, fierce fits of anger. He hated the situation, his ignorance, and his inability to tap the many information sources he had once kept at his disposal. He wanted to grab every man in existence by the throat and shake until one of them delivered King Edward, alive and unharmed, or at least the facts he needed to find the king himself.

Instead, Nightfall spent his days topside, listening to the guards’ stories and regaling them with some of his own. His time as Frihiat had taught him how to capture and hold attention, as well as to tell when his audience needed a change. He reveled in the riffle of salt air through his hair and the ceaseless slog of water against the hull. He even took some malicious pleasure in the occasional sight of the nobleman, Ragan, flopped over the railing, vomiting into the sea. Unlike Nightfall, the Schizian did spend most of his time in his quarters, until driven out in need of open air. Occasionally, he joined his men for a meal or to discuss mission matters, but he always avoided Nightfall. His rare glances vividly displayed distrust and hatred, a detail not lost on the guards.

On the sixth day of the crossing, the young blond, Dawser, approached Nightfall, who had his back pressed to the main mast, legs stretched out in front of him. “I think you’re incredible,” the boy said, sitting cross-legged beside him. “Why doesn’t Ragan like you?”

Nightfall glanced up, sweeping the deck with his gaze from long habit. A few of the guards and sailors milled about, some within earshot; but they seemed intent on other things. He did not care if they overheard. “I don’t know. I thought maybe one of you could tell me.”

Dawser ran a hand through his hair, leaving the short strands standing up in its wake. “I don’t know either. He seems to think you had something to do with the murders and your king’s disappearance.”

Nightfall appreciated the direct response. Though that possibility had sat foremost in his suspicions, it helped to have someone in the know clarify it. He snorted. “That’s nonsense.”

“I know.”

Though Dawser could not possibly know, Nightfall appreciated his loyalty, even if it did serve little real purpose. “I’m as faithful to and protective of King Edward as any man can be.”

“I know.”

Nightfall swiveled his head to look directly at the younger man. “How do you know?”

Dawser cleared his throat and spoke with a certainty beyond his years. “Because no one would do what Harvistan says you did in Duke Varsah’s dungeon unless he really cared for the person he was looking for.”

“And,” a wavy-haired, heavy-set guard added, joining them, “you fret way too much to be celebrating a calculated victory.” Nightfall remembered his name as Chintylin.

Ivin, who had been conversing with Chintylin a moment earlier came, too, to put in his piece. “And you’ve been a noble for too short a time to already think the way they do.”

Nightfall’s brows bunched, and the other two guards looked equally confused.

Chintylin questioned first. “What do you mean by that?”

Ivin made a noise deep in his throat. “I mean most commonfolk won’t dare harm nobles for fear of punishment, but the highborn take to slaughtering one another for status. Sudian’s not been privileged long enough to start using such tactics.”

Though Chintylin had come up with his own reason for Nightfall’s innocence, he dismissed Ivin’s. “Tactics like murdering a whole roomful of people?” He waved a hand. “Please. That doesn’t take a strategist.”

Ivin pressed his back to the side of the ship and slid to the deck. “Oh, it’s not subtle, but it worked. How’s Sudian supposed to get the clout or the money to hire the Bloodshadow Brotherhood in the three days he’s had to learn how to be a highborn?”

Though moot, and dangerously wrong, the question raised others. Nightfall could not believe an organized underground network existed that he knew nothing about. “The Bloodshadow Brotherhood? What’s that?”

Dawser jumped back in, “It’s this really mean bunch of thugs.”

Nodding, Chintylin elaborated. “Rumor is they’re demons, one grown from every droplet of blood spilled during the execution of Nightfall.”

Nightfall forced a shiver. “Creepy.”

“Quick and total destruction.” Ivin grunted. “Without a hint of humanity or guilt. They’re good at what they do, and they’re the only ones I can think of who could render an entire room of witnesses silent.”

Nightfall finally had his answer, though it merely served to raise more questions. He considered these, limited to the ones that would not make it clear he understood the workings of criminals.

At that moment, a cry wafted from above. “Pirates!”

Nightfall’s blood ran cold. Before he could think, he darted past the guards, leaped to the boom, and shinnied up the riggings. Even the off duty sailors scurried to the railings.

“Starboard!” the lookout shouted. “Black sails!”

Nightfall looked out over mild seas to the rapidly approaching ship. Sleek and light, it moved before the wind with a quickness
The Sharius
could never outrun. Double-masted with three triangular jibs, it flew two different flags from the topmasts, both jet black. The main mast’s bore a white hourglass against the dark fabric, and the mizzen’s displayed a human figure and a treasure chest, with arrows pointing each way between them. Nightfall recognized the meaning of only one. The hourglass cautioned them to surrender swiftly, before time ran out and bloodshed became imminent. He did not recognize the second; his ships had never used or seen it. Men swarmed the pirate ship’s railings and riggings, and sunlight glimmered from the blades of their thick, curved short swords.