The Return of Nightfall (60 page)

Jacquellette sprang from the bench. “I found that soul!”

“But I’m the one who talked the boy’s parents into selling him. You couldn’t have gotten past the greeting without me.” Xevar took a menacing step toward his sister, though the few fingerbreadths he stood taller could hardly be considered towering over her, and their weights seemed nearly comparable.

“It’s my turn!” Jacquellette’s volume rose to match Xevar’s. “You have more souls than I do!”

“That’s because you got all the power spells,” Xevar shot back. “I only agreed to that arrangement because I knew I’d get more.”

Nightfall took a few more hesitant, retreating steps. If the sorcerers would just stay focused on one another, he might manage to slip into their House unseen. With any luck, they would go to war, killing one and weakening the other enough to gain Nightfall the upper hand. He tried to think of a way to drive them to battle, seeking the proper words to inflame them without drawing their combined might onto himself.

The two appeared not to need Nightfall’s assistance. Jacquellette’s voice turned shrill. “Being able to control a king’s mind
is
a power spell. By rights, it belongs to me!”

Xevar threw up his hands. “Any talent used well is a power spell. By that logic, all souls are yours.”

“Maybe they should be.”

Xevar’s nostrils flared. “Are you challenging me?”

Though she clearly held most of the might, Jacquellette attempted to defuse the argument. “Look, I’m just saying we can both be happy. Me as the queen of Alyndar, and you as the richest man in Hartrin.”

Far from pacified, Xevar drew himself up even more. “Both rich, yes. But you steal a soul belonging to me and lounge as royalty, while I work my fingers to the bone for wealth here. No! You can still be queen; I’ll make him marry you. But I deserve the chancellery of Alyndar, at least.”

Nightfall saw his chance. The two now seemed nearer to accord than battle, and he had gathered all the information he could from them. He sprang for the door . . .

. . . and nearly impaled himself on a massive spike that grew abruptly from the wood.

A twist saved Nightfall, and he found himself facing a door suddenly bristling with wickedly sharp, thornlike protrusions as long as his arms. One jutted from the latch, effectively preventing him from tripping it. He spun to face the sorcerers.

Xevar crouched near the bench with a strangled look on his face. Clearly, he had initially believed himself the target of Jacquellette’s undeclared attack. The woman stared directly at Nightfall. “Where are you going, Delmar?”

“N-nowhere,” Nightfall stammered in Delmar’s voice. He suspected the young man would have fainted from terror, but his own instinctive dodge made that reaction impossible now, even if it might have helped him. “M-m-mistress.” He suspected the sudden violence had as much to do with intimidating Xevar as preventing Nightfall’s escape.

As if to confirm his suspicions, Jacquellette raised a hand, then snapped it downward. Lightning slashed the sodden clouds and hurtled toward him.

Nightfall had only a split second to think. Delmar would cower, but Delmar would also die. He needed to move, but sideways would not prove enough. Electricity traveled, especially on wet ground. Seizing the conjured thorns, he scurried upward, using them like a ladder. The bolt slammed the ground where he had stood, trembling it. Grass turned black in a wide circle. A nearby tree listed. Nightfall’s nose filled with the odor of ozone, but the attack missed him.

Survival took precedence over disguise. Before he could think, Nightfall drew a knife and hurled it at Jacquellette. It flew true, directly for her throat.

Still crouched, Xevar coughed out a guttural.

A quivering hand’s breadth in front of her, the blade struck something unseen and plummeted harmlessly to the ground.

“Thank you, Brother.” Jacquellette calmly bent, picked up the knife, and examined it.

Only then, Nightfall realized he had used one of the skull-headed hilts that served as his trademark. An item meant to intimidate had now given him away, an unforgivable and unsurvivable mistake.

“Well, well, well.” Jacquellette grinned at Nightfall. “Look what we have here, Chancellor Xevar.” It was her way of letting her brother know she had accepted his version of the plan, to assure they continued to work together.

Nightfall weighed his options. He could continue to climb the stone face of the building, leaving himself fully open to attack, or he could descend back into a battle he had no chance of winning. For the moment, he remained in place. So long as he did so, Jacquellette seemed in no great hurry to attack him again.

“Could this be the great Nightfall himself masquerading as a lowly servant?” Jacquellette glanced toward the spot where Xevar had stood, but he was no longer there.

Though unwilling to take his eyes from the sorcerer who had confessed to having the dangerous magics, Nightfall glanced around for Xevar as well. He turned his gaze toward the twisted trees still standing in the battered garden; but, unless Xevar had learned to blend with them, he was not there.
Where is he?
Losing sight of an enemy boded more danger than Nightfall could tolerate. For a moment, he glanced anxiously around the garden.
He’s a sorcerer.
That reminder brought so many possibilities with it. Xevar might have the ability to move unseen. Upon further inspection, Nightfall’s first thought proved the correct one. When he focused on movement rather than appearance, Nightfall found Xevar, now colored a mottled brown and green, creeping quietly through the foliage.

As if an attack by two sorcerers were not enough, Nightfall felt the crawling sensation of unseen eyes upon him. He caught movement from the corner of his vision. His attention jerked back to Jacquellette in time to see her make an arcing motion. He released his hold on the spikes, leaping toward her as he did so. It was exactly the sort of response no one ever expected. This time, lightning did not streak from the heavens, and no sound indicated anything magical had resulted from her gesture. Nightfall landed as lightly as a cat, seized by the sensation of nettles stinging his legs. Certain he must have jumped into a nest of hornets, he glanced down, only to find himself standing on firm, wet ground. The pain intensified, running up his legs to encompass his entire body.
It’s magic. She got me.

Jacquellette could not help gloating. “Hurts, doesn’t it,
Nightfall
?”

Goading seemed his only hope now. Ignorance would prove his downfall. “I’ve felt worse.”

“For now, perhaps. But it will worsen by the moment. Perfect talent for a sorcerer, wouldn’t you say, Nightfall?”

Nightfall had to admit it was. As the pain increased, it would eventually reach the point of no bearing, dragging his soul to the surface. She only needed to cause emotional torment as well, and she clearly enjoyed that part of her work. Already, it felt as if a thousand wasps stung him simultaneously, injecting poison into every part of his body. He suffered a stab of dread. If he allowed the agony to overcome him, she would discover his talent and steal his soul as well.
No!
He concentrated on Xevar’s position, on finding Jacquellette’s weaknesses, on anything but the growing pain. Whatever magical shield had stopped his thrown knife could have myriad properties. It might work only once or remain in place for hours. It could prevent only knives, or airborne weapons, or it might make her utterly invincible. It all depended upon the talent of the soul Xevar had stolen, and Nightfall’s only hope lay in discovering how to break through it.

In quick succession, Nightfall flung three more knives, two at Xevar and another at Jacquellette. Each slammed hopelessly against a barrier, bouncing back toward him; and he caught them from ingrained habit. The magical pain worsened incrementally. It now felt as if an army of bowmen had shot him full of arrows. He gritted his teeth against the sharpness, against the agony threatening to steal what little concentration remained to him. He could not last much longer.

Jacquellette’s laughter struck nearly as hard. “You’re helpless, Nightfall. Helpless and dead. And not nearly as scary or powerful as the ignorant commoners believe.”

Nightfall bullied through the pain, grounding his reason on one last hope. He rushed Jacquellette, daggers flashing. No barrier foiled his physical charge. He slammed into her, driving her to the ground. A wild slash tore through silk and flesh.

Jacquellette screamed a curse.

The pain became excruciating, a blinding, deafening swirl of agony. Nightfall gasped for every breath, his assault driven more by mindless intensity than will.

Then, suddenly, the pain disappeared. Nightfall opened his eyes to see Xevar and Jacquellette in front of him. Still the color of trees and grass, Xevar grinned wickedly down at Nightfall, who realized he had fallen to his hands and knees. Jacquellette had a tear in the thigh of her hose, and blood dripped from it in a steady stream that scarcely seemed to bother her. It was not a lethal strike.

Nightfall tried to rise, to fling himself bodily upon the sorcerers, but found himself incapable of movement. Once again a prisoner of magic, he had become rooted to the ground as firmly as any tree. Other than his eyes, he could not move any part, not even his lips to speak.

Jacquellette’s laughter hammered Nightfall’s ears again; and, this time, Xevar joined her. “So,” she taunted, “the great and powerful demon dies crawling on his belly like a bug.”

Nightfall could not have spoken had he wished to do so. He knew Xevar’s magic imprisoned him and it had displaced the pain Jacquellette had inflicted on him. There was no doubt in any of their minds they would kill him. He had not dared to tap his own talent when he attacked Jacquellette. That, combined with the pain, would surely have told her of its existence. This way, at least he might die with his soul intact.

“Any last words, Nightfall?”

“Just finish him,” Xevar fairly growled. “You know he can’t talk.”

Motion at the corner of Nightfall’s vision grabbed his attention. If he could only turn his head ever so slightly, he could see.

“Then I will speak for him.” Jacquellette circled Nightfall, a hungry look in her eyes. “I will say the demon died begging for mercy and screeching like a little girl.” She raised an arm suddenly.

As before, the clouds split open, and lightning shot from the heavens. Nightfall watched helplessly as the bolt streaked toward him, noticing, with grim satisfaction, that Xevar had not moved far enough to protect himself from any backlash.

A deep male voice filled the courtyard. “NO!” A shadow appeared suddenly between Nightfall and the conjured spell. The lightning crashed into the newcomer, driving him, spasming, into Nightfall. He toppled backward over the grounded demon and lay still. Pain burned and quivered through Nightfall, then disappeared. Without another thought, without bothering to see who had saved him, he drew a dagger in each hand and threw himself onto Jacquellette. Nightfall jabbed for the vitals and tore. Jacquellette managed a single scream before the blade severed her windpipe, but that did not seem enough. Seven more times the blade rose and fell before Nightfall recovered enough presence of mind to remember he had a second enemy.

Nightfall found Xevar on the ground, caught by the wet spray of the lightning. Blisters covered half his face and body, the flesh charred black. For a moment, Nightfall wondered if Jacquellette had planned it that way: to strike before her brother managed to stand clear, to kill him at the same time as Nightfall and rid herself of two nuisances at once. He discarded the possibility. No sorcerer would waste the spells Xevar had carried. Someday, she would have murdered him, but she would have done so with the proper amount of excruciating torture to claim the souls he harbored.

Though Xevar showed no signs of life, Nightfall drove a knife through his throat to the hilt. Twice. Then touched each staring eye. Only when he received no response did he dare to relax and finally turn his attention to whoever had sacrificed his life to save a demon.

It was Edward. Though gaunter and dressed in peasant’s rags, his features were unmistakable: ungodly handsome, golden hair matted and dirty, his round gentle face so peaceful and still. A smoldering hole in the fabric covering his abdomen was the only sign of the lightning strike.

“No,” Nightfall said. Then louder, “NO!” He dove onto Edward, pressing his fingers to the muscled neck, willing a pulse to thrum against his touch. He felt nothing. Nothing. “No, no, no!” Anguish clotted his throat until even that single word could not escape it. He had come so far, through so much, and found the king alive.
Why did you do that, you stupid, blithering clod! Why would you give up your noble young self for a worthless villain like me?
Tears stung Nightfall’s eyes, as painful as the sorcerer’s spell. He despised the morality that had driven Edward to such a sacrifice. With both fists, he pounded against the dead man’s chest. “You hell-damned oaf!” He slammed again. “You guileless dizzard!” He hit the corpse hard enough to shatter ribs had Edward not developed so much muscle from his years of weapons’ training. “You blitheringly ignorant, overmoral, naive pretty-boy!”

Edward coughed.

Nightfall fell on his ass.

For an instant, he could do nothing but stare, his hands aching, his eyes like saucers. Finally, he brought shaky fingers back to Edward’s neck. A strong steady pulse beat beneath his touch.
What the hell? What the goddamned hell!
His gaze went naturally to the sky, and his unshakeable belief in a total lack of higher powers wavered. Then, he remembered a story someone, probably Dyfrin, had told him. It concerned a man struck by lightning, declared dead. Moments later, another bolt hit him, and he sat upright as if nothing had happened. Lightning often killed by stopping the heart, and a second jolt could start it just as suddenly. Apparently, a solid blow to the chest by a fist worked as well.