The Return of Nightfall (25 page)

This time, no one bothered to stand when Nightfall entered. The enormous general at the head of the table motioned him to the only empty chair, at the far end.

Without a word, Nightfall took his seat.

The general looked across the table at him. “Lord Chancellor Sudian, so nice of you to come.”

Like I had a choice.
Nightfall lowered and raised his head once in respectful acknowledgment. He had already decided to speak as little as possible. He wanted to gather as much information as he could, then excuse himself as soon as propriety allowed. He did not like crowds, unless he could disappear into them, and he definitely did not fit in here. Even eating no longer seemed important. Nervousness and the myriad smells combined to sap his appetite.

The man at the head of the table continued, “I am Simont Basilaered, the general of Alyndar’s army.” He rose, unfolding the tallest frame Nightfall had ever seen. Had they stood together, Nightfall would look directly into the man’s breastbone. Muscled like a bull, Simont probably outweighed one. Hair as black as ash perched in a pile of curls on top of his head, and a thick beard bristled from his chin connected by a dense line of sideburns. Nightfall estimated the man’s age was close to his own, though no one else would assume such a thing. Nightfall looked a decade younger when scrubbed clean as Sudian, while Simont’s craggy face added years to his appearance. A large nose and bushy brows overshadowed eyes so dark they appeared to have no pupils.

“To my left is the top-ranked officer of Alyndar’s navy, Lord Admiral Nikolei Neerchus.”

Nightfall tore his gaze from the army’s giant, only to look upon another. Though not quite as tall as his land-based equal, the navy commander matched him for bulk, all of it hard sinew and muscle. He was blond and handsome in contrast to the general’s dark homeliness. He appeared calmer, more gentle, an appearance enhanced by enormous green eyes and clean-shaven, chiseled features. Nightfall tried to memorize names and titles, knowing he had barely begun and wishing the men would stick with a single name or designation. He had an excellent memory, but the seventeen men in the room would surely challenge it.

The general indicated the man sitting beside the admiral. “And this is Sir Alber Evrinn, a knight of Alyndar and its third largest landholder.”

Alber rose, and the admiral retook his seat. Though taller and broader than Nightfall, the knight looked positively tiny in the wake of the military commanders. He had a wild crop of medium-brown hair that seemed as untamable as Nightfall’s own. He appeared preter naturally sad, with sloping pale brown eyes, a long face, and a small pointy nose.

The general skipped Nightfall to move to the other side of the table. “Another knight of the realm, Sir Tenneth Kentaries, second largest landowner.”

Alber took his seat, and the middle-aged man directly across from him rose. Average in height and breadth, at least for a courtier, he sported sand-colored hair cut short and plastered with oil. Pale, flabby skin poked from beneath his silken garb. His straight-set features boasted of a handsome youth, but his hazel eyes had gone watery with age. He rested his hands on the table, long-fingered like a thief’s but without dirt or callus. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, though his tone seemed a mix of boredom and suspicion.

The general gestured at the only remaining seated man. “This is Baron Elliat Laimont, our largest landholder.”

Sir Tenneth sat, and the baron rose. Fat and white-haired, his fine features widened by bulk, he still carried an aura of command that demanded respect. His dazzling outfit displayed at least five colors. Nightfall guessed he had a wife. Few men could coordinate clothing so complicated with such seamless competence. Though not a striking gentleman, he managed an air of cultured attractiveness despite size and age, and much of that had to do with his clothes.

The baron gave Nightfall a stiff nod, then took his seat.

Nightfall glanced around the table, trying to commit each name and appearance to memory. It seemed easiest to go by titles: the huge dark general, the almost-as-huge light admiral, the well dressed baron, and two knights: one sad-looking, one pale. Trying not to groan, he looked around at the remaining men, standing, sitting, and leaning against the walls.

But the general did not bother to introduce the others, instead going right to business. “Chancellor, we apologize for disturbing your busy schedule, but we have some concerns requiring immediate address.”

Nightfall kept his attention firmly on General Simont Basilaered. He did not have to feign interest. The solemn and serious expressions on every face displayed the significance of this meeting. Receipt of a ransom note seemed certain. He only wished the enormous man would come directly to the point. Seeing no reason to delay by adding words of his own, he remained silent.

“As you know,” the general continued, “Duke Varsah of Schiz sent a contingent of men to Alyndar.”

“I traveled with them,” Nightfall reminded the general, hoping it might forestall more talk of the obvious. It suddenly occurred to him that Ragan and his men should have reported to court with the rest of the nobility, yet they had not stood before him.

As if in direct answer to Nightfall’s unspoken question, General Simont said, “They came straight to us, the High Council, just as the duke’s earlier message did.”

Earlier message?
Nightfall did not let his curiosity show. He wondered how word could have arrived quicker. They had taken the shortest route to Alyndar, by sea, and had left reasonably fast. He supposed someone traveling alone might have made better time, especially if he had not fallen into the hands of pirates; but the message would have arrived only a few hours sooner, which scarcely seemed worth the trouble.
Unless it was a ransom demand.
It made no sense.
What in all hell is going on?

“Both raised some interesting concerns and questions.”

Nightfall read warning in the general’s statement, bordering on accusation. Every gaze went to him, intent and unflinching. They seemed to expect some reaction to words that warranted none. He tried to analyze the matter but was surely missing necessary information the others already had. Remaining quiet still appeared to be his best course of action. Nevertheless, they all clearly required something from him. “I’d warrant so.” He met Simont’s gaze with a casual ease that was a sham. The growing tension in the room bothered him, and his survival instincts drove him to caution and escape. “Anything . . . useful?”

“Maybe.” Simont met Nightfall’s look solidly. “Perhaps we could hear your version?”

Nightfall blinked, still uncertain whether or not he faced some sort of threat. “My version . . . ?” He trailed off, hoping one of the other men would fill in the blanks. The utter lack of extraneous conversation unnerved him. Either etiquette held them at bay, or nothing interested them as much as the ongoing discussion, as one-sided as it was.

“. . . of King Edward’s kidnapping.”

Nightfall shrugged. “I’m afraid I wasn’t there.” His own words raised ire.
If I had been, this never could have happened.
He did not know who to hate more: Ned for forcing him to fulfill a disingenuous promise or himself for not coming up with a better excuse for refusing Brandon Magebane. He tried not to think about the consequences of leaving Byroth alive. Brandon might well have died without Nightfall’s help, and a dangerous sorcerer could still stalk the world; but at least King Edward would have remained on Alyndar’s throne.

“We know,” the general said through clenched teeth. The men around the table stirred, clearly wanting to speak yet constrained by etiquette and rules of order. “On some mysterious mission which kept you away just long enough to survive the kidnapping.”

Nightfall did not like where the questioning was headed. “Not true. I was gone all evening and night, not just—”

This time, Simont Basilaered did not allow him to finish. “And you returned exhausted and covered in blood.”

Covered in . . . ?
Nightfall could scarcely believe Schiz had exaggerated his wound. “It was
my
blood.” Protestation seemed futile. Only Brandon and Gatiwan could confirm his explanation; and they had promised to keep him out of the matter, swore that they would never mention his name. Even if they retracted their promise, Duke Varsah would make certain the Magekillers did not have the opportunity to assist him. Besides, Nightfall had no intention of letting large groups of distant courtiers and nobles judge what had happened that night. When the truth came out, and it surely would, it would destroy a friendship and a family; and he would face the justice of Duke Varsah for killing a child. He had no doubt that would prove as severe as anything Alyndar would inflict on him, even if they really believed he had a hand in Edward’s disappearance.

“Can you explain your whereabouts?”

“I can.”

Simont’s brows rose in expectation.

Nightfall had had enough. “But I won’t. I don’t have to. Ned traveled the world with only me for protection, and I got him through it alive. I saved him from a sorcerer, by the Father! I don’t owe explanations to anyone.”

The baron could no longer hold his tongue. “You owe one to us.”

Simont took back the reins of control. “You would not be the first loyal servant to turn against his liege when granted a position of power. A chance at the crown.”

The comparison to an evil, ruthless sorcerer enraged Nightfall. “We’re finished here.” He sprang to his feet.

The men at the table rose with him, the admiral so quickly his chair tumbled over backward. It slammed against the floor as the men already standing bunched toward the door, the only exit from the room.

Nightfall’s heart rate quickened, but he hid his tension behind a mask of bravado. “Get out of my way.”

“You still have questions to answer,” the pale knight proclaimed.

“And I’ve already told you I won’t speak of that night.” Nightfall took a step toward the door, knowing he could not successfully fight his way through the crowd. If for no other reason, because Volkmier stood nearest the door. “Surely someone in the tavern overheard Ned commanding me to assist two men who came in that evening. I tried to refuse them, but he wouldn’t let me.”

The other knight spoke softly but with whipcrack force. “Chancellor Sudian, name your parents.”

The question seemed to catch everyone off guard, Nightfall not the least. “What?”

Again Simont took control of the conversation, though no one retook his seat. “We’ve tried to find a history for you, Sudian, but it doesn’t exist. It’s as if you appeared by magic.”

Nightfall resorted to sarcasm, mind working furiously on escape. He knew he could move quicker than most of the men between him and the door could think to stop him. How to open the door without interference still eluded him. “That’s right. I was conjured out of the air by sorcerers. No, actually, I grew on a tree.” He threw up his hands with the grandeur of a priest. “I hatched from a lost egg that fell, like hail, from the heavens.” He gave a stern look to the men in front of him. “Step aside.”

The men in his path glanced uneasily from Nightfall to the High Council standing around the table. It was clear that they didn’t wish to ignore the chancellor’s direct order, but they also felt it necessary to cater to the whims of their other superiors.

Now that most of the standing men blocked his way, Nightfall realized he was the smallest man in the room, at least by weight. Many of the Council, other than the superiors at the table, wore working purple and silver, trusted guardsmen of the inner court. The rest dressed richly, as befit land-and/or titleholders in the favor of the king.

“Stop this nonsense!” bellowed Lord Admiral Nick olei Neerchus. “And name your parents, Chancellor Sudian. Now!”

Nightfall stiffened. This charade had gone way beyond propriety. All day long, men and women had reminded him he currently ruled Alyndar. He knew even the men of the High Council would never treat Edward in this manner. Slowly, he turned, trying for a look of suppressed rage. “The nonsense is this sham of a meeting. My parentage is none of your business. You know I’m lowborn, and I’ve not denied it. I’ve never claimed an inherited right to any land or title.”

The baron took over, his gentle tone so in contrast with the admiral’s it seemed to beg for understanding and an answer. “Sudian, please don’t misunderstand. You must realize how strange and worrisome it is to be ruled by a man who appears to have no past. We all know you were born of a woman; but, when our best searches turn up nothing before you appeared in the courtyard at Prince Edward’s side, you might just as well have hatched from that lost egg you mentioned.”

Though the baron seemed more reasonable, Nightfall did not like the turn his questioning took any better than the louder, more direct commanders. He wondered how long this particular line of thinking would take to get around to the demon spawn theories explaining the origins of his other persona. He tried to throw the councillors enough information to satisfy their curiosity without sending them down a path that would prove him a liar. The truth would only seal his doom. “My mother died in childbirth. I never knew her name. Papa and I just always called her Mama.”

Nightfall ignored the whispers that followed this statement, needing to keep all his attention on the men interrogating him.

“And your father?” the general pressed.

“Took odd jobs to feed us.”

“His name!” the admiral snapped. It seemed to Nightfall as if the man said everything in explosive expletives.

Nightfall knew he could not hesitate too long, could not give the appearance of making things up as he went along, even though he was. He said the first name that came to his mind, “Dyfrin. His name was Dyfrin.” Just speaking it aloud brought back all of the bitter sorrow and anger that erupted whenever he thought of his friend’s final moments. “And he’s dead. Murdered by your dog of a previous chancellor, a sorcerer without a scrap of goodness in that evil, black pit he called a heart.” Nightfall realized something he had never before considered. When he had first met Gilleran, King Rikard had used the sorcerer to determine whether Nightfall spoke truth or lies. Now, he knew the sorcerer had fooled them both. No careful phraseology could have rescued Nightfall from Gilleran’s truth-detection spell, because it did not work the way the sorcerer had claimed it did. From the start, Gilleran had been using Dyfrin’s stolen birth gift to read Nightfall’s mind.