The Return of Nightfall (20 page)

“
The
chancellor, Sudian. There’s only one.”

Nightfall resumed walking, though he turned Kelryn a sarcastic glare. “
The
chancellor, then. Thanks. That makes it so much better.”

“I’m sure Ned didn’t want to overwhelm you. He thought it might scare you from accepting the position.”

“It would have.”

Kelryn spread her hands, her point made for her. “But we all knew what he meant when he asked you.”

“I didn’t.”

“He wanted you to take Gilleran’s place.” Kelryn gave him a sideways look that brooked no deceit “You’re not stupid, Sudian. You knew that.”

“I guess . . . I did know that.” At the time, Nightfall had lain in agony, seriously wounded from his battle with Gilleran. He had overheard Kelryn refusing King Edward’s proposal because, she said, she was in love with him. Warmed and shocked by Kelryn’s sacrifice, and the king’s friendship, Nightfall had not considered the full extent of Edward’s offer. “But I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” The realization was frightening. “Gods above,
Ned
conned
me
!”

Kelryn laughed. “I knew you’d love the irony.”

Nightfall could not help smiling in silence for several moments as they walked, hand in hand toward Alyndar Castle, the page dogging every step. An anemic glimmer of sun forced its way through a crack in the cloud cover, adding a sheen to the cobbled street. Men and women stepped aside, leaving the center of the way clear for Alyndarian nobility. Nightfall picked up the last thread of their conversation and built on it. “Not half the irony of me sitting in judgment on anyone. Can’t we pass on the duty to some enthusiastic underling?”

Kelryn picked lint from Nightfall’s shaggy hair. “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, who’s done it while Ned and I were gone?”

“By law, the members of the High Council took turns.” Kelryn ran her fingers through his tangles, giving up almost as soon as she started. The sea air had turned his hair into a hopeless snarl. “And they’re not underlings, Sudian. Together, they hold tremendous power.”

Disinterested in such matters, Nightfall waved away the details. “Can’t they just keep doing it?”

Kelryn shook her head, not giving up on her explanation as easily as on Nightfall’s hair. “The most important cases have waited for the king’s return. The chancellor will do in his absence.”

“I will?” The words were shocked from him.

The two turned onto the rocky path toward the castle, suddenly alone. Even the page became lost on the main streets.

Kelryn steered Nightfall to a large boulder and signaled for him to sit.

Nightfall obliged by springing onto the stone, though he settled in a defensible crouch. Certain no one could overhear them, Kelryn switched to the name by which she had known Nightfall most of his life, one she dared not speak in anyone’s presence. “Marak, you need to understand. King Rikard had two sons, no daughters. When he and his oldest, Leyne, were killed, that left only Ned.”

Nightfall made an impatient gesture.

“Only Ned. King Edward. The king’s last blooded relative.”

Nightfall missed the point. “I know that. That’s what released me from Gilleran’s damned oath-bond. That’s why I was able to attack him.”

“You also know his goal was to kill Ned, too.”

“Yes. Yes.” The discussion seemed a waste of time. Nightfall glanced toward the reappeared page as he settled on another rock a polite distance away. “To destroy the king’s entire line . . .”

“. . . so Gilleran, Chancellor of Alyndar, would sit upon the throne.”

Suddenly, everything became clear. The blood drained from Nightfall’s face. “You mean . . . ? You mean that until King Edward returns . . . ?” He could not finish.

So Kelryn did. “. . . you are the ruler of the kingdom of Alyndar.” She performed a fancy curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

Nightfall sank to the boulder, speechless.

Chapter 7

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

T
HE WORLD CHANGED the moment Nightfall reached the castle door. Brisk and fawning servants whisked him from his salt-crusted, wrinkled pirate gear into a warm bath; and he barely managed to keep hold of Edward’s rescued ring. Much to his chagrin, one man remained to scour him with ashy perfumed oil, sand, and brushes, despite his insistence he could tend to himself. He had weathered this treatment only once before, also in Alyndar Castle, just before King Rikard had assigned him his new identity as Prince Edward’s squire/steward. Then, the bath had seemed as dangerous as it was symbolic, washing away the filth of his immoral past but also the protection of the many personae who had kept him alive and concealed through the years. Once fully exposed, he could never escape to anonymity again.

This time, the process seemed more invigorating and physically painful than humiliating or emotionally charged. The scrubbing opened his healing wounds as well as dislodging weeks of grime, leaving the water an ugly reddish brown and requiring three changes. When the bath attendant finished, another man coated Nightfall’s abraded skin with soothing balms and sweet-smelling oils, then swaddled him in fluffy towels. A woman came after with a pouch of tools, attacking the rigid knots and snarls that defined his hair. He sensed her frustration as the tangled locks refused to yield to her usual ministrations, and she loosed occasional grunts or hissed through her gritted teeth.

The three male servants stood by with Nightfall’s fresh clothing, but they would not remove the towels in the woman’s presence. At length, one paced. Another hovered over her, pointing out areas that needed tending. Each time he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, her manner grew choppier, her combing more hatchetlike. The third man inspected the court silks repeatedly: unfolding and refolding, removing invisible lint, checking every seam.

Finally, even Nightfall had had enough. “You!” He jabbed a finger toward the male servant near his head. “Leave her alone and let her work before she stabs one of those picks through your annoying, interfering heart!”

Clearly taken aback, the man retreated. “Yes, sir . . . Lord . . . Majesty.”

The woman snorted, clearly a suppressed laugh.

“And you.” Nightfall indicated the woman with a lighter gesture. “Stop worrying so much about hurting me or ruining something. Cut off whatever’s in your way. Shear me bald, if you have to.”

“But, Majesty—” the man he had first addressed protested.

Nightfall interrupted. “It’ll grow back. It always does, damn it.”

The woman worked faster, more heavy-handed, while the man continued to watch over her shoulder wringing his hands but no longer directing.

The pacer ceased his useless movements to approach Nightfall. Averting his eyes from the towel-covered form, he bowed deeply. “Lord Chancellor, who would you have us fetch for the chancellor’s seat?”

Nightfall turned his attention to the speaker, a thin, nervous-looking man with a long, narrow face and wispy blond hair. “Excuse me?”

The servant bowed again. “Who do you wish to advise you from the chancellor’s seat?” He added carefully, “If anyone, my lord.”

Nightfall hesitated, considering whom among Alyndar’s staff he would dare to trust. Many of those with the most knowledge might deliberately steer him wrong to embarrass him, and he had paid little attention to court affairs in his short time at Alyndar Castle. He could think of only one person he could wholly trust. “Kelryn.”

The servant blinked but otherwise made no movement. He did not even seem to breathe.

The clothier paused in his inspection, and the man who had done most of the previous talking left the woman’s side to face Nightfall directly.

Nightfall got his first good look at the man. A bit older than the others, nearly Nightfall’s age, he was tall and lean with curly brown hair and a ruddy complexion. “Pardon me, Chancellor Sudian, sir. Did you say Kelryn?”

“Indeed.”

“As in
Lady
Kelryn?”

“Lady Kelryn, yes. Is there a Lord Kelryn?”

“No, my lord.” The man shifted from foot to foot in his livery. “But, Lord Chancellor . . . ?”

When the head servant did not finish, Nightfall pressed. “Yes?”

The blond finally blurted out, “But she’s a . . . a lady!”

Though Nightfall guessed the cause of their consternation, he continued to play dumb. It seemed better than the previous cautious silence. “Of that, I am very glad, seeing as how I intend to marry her.”

At Nightfall’s back, the woman’s touch gentled, and a comb glided through his locks, dislodging dirt the bathwater could not previously reach.

“A woman as adviser?” The head servant pressed his hands together. “It’s simply not done, my lord.”

Nightfall could feel wetness splashing onto his scalp. When the servants finished with him, he suspected he would look more foppish than regal. “Why not? Is a woman’s advice not as useful as a man’s?”

The clothier paled, and the headman’s movements became a shuffling dance. Those two, Nightfall felt certain, had wives. “It is just . . . softer, my lord. Bedroom advice. Kitchen advice. Not courtroom advice.”

“Done!” the woman announced suddenly, stepping back to admire her work.

Nightfall shook his head. She had managed to keep his hair at a length just past his ears. Free of tangles, it moved easily, still wet from the washing and freshening oils. “Get Kelryn,” he demanded, not caring if he violated protocol. “My judgment could use softening.”

 

The staging area consisted of a small, empty room with curtained walls and two exits, including the one through which Nightfall and his new entourage entered. Dressed in doublet and hose, a protective leather tunic beneath the silver-trimmed purple silks, and pristine doeskin boots with gleaming silver buckles, Nightfall barely recognized himself. He wondered if the pretty-smelling crap they smeared on his face hid the predatory features or toned down his glaring eyes. Or, perhaps, the servants deliberately enhanced those features, believing harshness might strengthen the look of Alyndar’s temporary ruler.

Me, Alyndar’s king.
The idea seemed so ludicrous Nightfall wanted to laugh out loud. Even if he could handle it, he did not want the job: the attention, the glitter, the responsibility. Every instinct drove him to hidden corners and solitude, and his determination to rescue Edward grew even more intense. The king belonged on the throne of Alyndar, and Nightfall felt like something worse than an imposter.

The servants had remained behind to clean up the bathing room, and three new men replaced them. Nightfall knew the first, a plump steward with stringy, dark-blond hair and pale, recessed features. Though not much to look at, he had a calm, jovial personality that had won him a charming wife and one of the highest positions among Alyndar’s advisers. Named Charson, he had secured King Edward’s trust, and Nightfall also liked him.

The second was Khanwar, the tall, trim man whose seat Edward had given to Nightfall at their conference prior to leaving for Schiz. Ebony-haired and brown-eyed, Khanwar bore some title Nightfall had missed, though it sounded long and impressive. He spoke little, seeming to expect his charge to already know all the locations and formalities, and frowning at every tiny ignorance or mistake. The third attendant, called Vivarick, came and went with brusque efficiency, reporting back to either of the other men at intervals. Middle-aged and -sized, he sported auburn hair shorter than the current style, which always followed the king’s. Edward’s locks hung to his shoulders, casually layered and hinting of curl. Few could match his natural beauty, but most of the noblemen tried. Idly, Nightfall wondered if he became king, would royalty run around with wild snarls of grimy hair falling into their faces. He found no humor in the image, which first required him to accept Edward’s death.

Through the other exit wafted the sounds of myriad conversations mingled into a rising and falling hum as the spectator nobles gathered, found their seats on the benches, and awaited the arrival of Alyndar’s lord chancellor. The sound of footfalls and voices just outside the entrance, sent him spinning toward the door. Kelryn stepped inside, accompanied by a male steward and a female servant. She wore an ankle-length, lace-edged dress, tailored from fine green silk that filled out her otherwise sinewy curves. Her snowy hair lay flat, brushed to a fine sheen and falling into delicate feathers at her ears. A clip studded with emeralds held the wilder locks in place, enhanced the more colorful tones in her hazel eyes, and drew attention away from her oddly shaped nose. She was the most beautiful thing Nightfall had ever seen.

The other men, too, went silent, clearly impressed. The woman beside her beamed, obviously the key to Kelryn’s transformation.

Kelryn glided toward Nightfall, her movements swan-like in their graceful perfection. Her dance, her every motion, had attracted him before her appearance, and she had lost none of her nimbleness in their time apart. He could scarcely believe this vision had consented to marry him, that she had worked most of her life as a dance hall girl.

“If you open your eyes any wider,” she murmured, “they’ll fall out. And close your mouth. There’s nothing inside we need to see.”

Nightfall tried to obey.

“See,” Kelryn continued with a twirl that sent the fabric fluttering. “Rich clothes can make anyone beautiful.”

Nightfall said the only thing he could, “You’re always beautiful to—”

“There you are!” Khanwar gave Kelryn a shove through the far exit and onto the dais. “We’ve been waiting—”

Faster than Nightfall could think, he had Khanwar by the cloth at his throat, dragging the noble’s head down to meet his killer stare. “Don’t manhandle Kelryn.” He had a weakness when it came to his beloved, the same that had forced him to spread false rumors about her having the clap to end the prostitution most of the dancers took up to supplement their meager wages. The same that once drove him to hunt down any man who dared to offend her. “Don’t even touch her.”