The Return of Nightfall (14 page)

With a sigh, Nightfall returned the ring to its secure position. He missed Dyfrin terribly, and now, also, Edward Nargol, king of Alyndar.

Chapter 4

—Dyfrin of Keevain, the demon’s friend

 

T
ENNETH KENTARIES yawned and stretched luxuri ously in the high-backed chair perched on the dais of Alyndar’s Great Hall. Lines of peaked windows admitted muted afternoon sunlight, which played through the hair of the few remaining nobles seated on the benches in front of him. The purple carpet of the aisleway currently held no one, indented and muddied by the footfalls of the guards, peasants, and courtiers who had stood in question or judgment that day. A familiar array of tapestries covered the stretches of stone wall between the windows, depicting the same scenes they had throughout King Rikard’s thirty-eight-year reign. A shield adorned with Alyndar’s fist-clutching-a-hammer crest hung over the entry. No one hovered beneath it now. The double doors lay shut; the day’s business, apparently, had concluded.

Tenneth knuckled his fingers through his neatly trimmed beard, satisfied with his decisions and results. Though never faced with a huge amount of dealings in the king’s absence—anything of import that could wait for his return did—it still ran a respectable gamut. With the king away, and his chancellor/adviser with him, the task fell to the members of Alyndar’s High Council. The five men took turns as arbiter, as the law commanded, so no one would get ideas about usurping the throne. Nevertheless, Tenneth believed himself the most worthy successor and imagined most of the others did also. Some made their opinions clearer than others, muttering darkly over the circumstances that left a younger son, barely capable of handling his own small affairs, wearing the crown of Alyndar.

With a flick of his long, lean fingers, Tenneth gestured the spectators from the Great Hall. He wanted to sit alone for a few moments, to enjoy the feel of the king’s strategically padded chair, the view of the long, double line of tapestries he could choose to rearrange at a whim. He imagined himself as King Rikard, his own watery hazel eyes sharpened to the king’s shrewd darkness, his pale skin and flabby musculature hardened to the tanned steel of the greatest king Alyndar had ever known. He wished his hair into the king’s leonine curls, his own sandy strands cut short to hide their limp color lessness. He harbored no real thoughts of treason; his idle life as Alyndar’s second largest landowner, inherited through generations, suited him just fine. He only savored the chance to hover over the Great Hall for a time and to feel like a king.

The seat to Tenneth’s right hand lay empty, as it usually had since Edward had ascended to the throne of Alyndar. Unlike his father’s sorcerer chancellor, Edward’s rarely bothered with affairs of court. A servant elevated by the new king’s decree, he seemed dangerously ignorant of the affairs of courtiers, even bored by them. When he did deign to join Edward in the Great Hall, he always came late, with clear reluctance, and fidgeted like a child trapped in a tutor’s long-winded lecture. Evil-eyed and ever-vigilant, he seemed to expect an army to burst through all of Alyndar’s defenses and into the Great Hall itself without a hint of warning. Clearly ignorant of the amount of power his new status granted him, Sudian made little attempt to mingle with the highborns, excusing himself from their conversations to chat with the hired help.

Tenneth twirled his beard with a finger. Alyndar’s navy lord admiral, Nikolei Neerchus, had twice tried to broach the subject of his poorly chosen chancellor with King Edward, but the young monarch had politely brushed aside the older and wiser man. Overwhelmed by the grief of losing his father and brother within a short space of time, injured by Gilleran’s sorcerous attack, and dropped abruptly into rulership of a quarter of the world’s land, Edward had no patience for such discussions. True, Sudian had saved Edward’s life and nearly lost his own in the battle; and such fierce loyalty deserved rewarding. Tenneth would not begrudge Sudian that: high praise, a monetary prize, a bit of land, an honorary title, perhaps. But to grant a servant performing his duty, even so well, a position that placed him over so many with far deeper ties to king and kingdom seemed rashly imprudent at best. And some were grumbling.

Tenneth took his hand from his beard and placed it, and the other, behind his head. As the gentry disappeared from the Great Hall, he luxuriated in the chair’s soft plush, warmed by the heat of his body. The chair beside him deserved a man of breeding and wisdom, perhaps Tenneth Kentaries himself: someone who cared deeply about the goings-on in Alyndar, about the relationships between this great kingdom and the world’s other three, about the long-term goals of a realm that must remain strong for his children, grandchildren, and even more distant descendants of his line. He had no idea of Sudian’s origins. In fact, he realized, no one did; but he knew the younger man had no deep ties of blood to Alyndar.

A gruff voice cut suddenly through Tenneth’s reverie. “Are you quite finished wallowing in the king’s chair?”

Startled, Tenneth leaped to his feet to confront the short, round figure of Baron Elliat Laimont, the only man in Alyndar, besides the king, to own more land than he did. “Wha . . . ? How . . . ?”

Elliat responded to the question Tenneth could not quite force out in his surprise. “I walked right through the main doors and up the carpetway. You would have heard me had you not been writhing about like a cat on silk.”

Tenneth felt his cheeks warm and tried for an air of indignation. “I wasn’t wallowing.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I happened to have a hard day, and I fell asleep.”

Elliat grunted, lips twitching into a smile. “Hopefully
after
you finished sentencing the last of the peasants.” He held up his beefy right arm to display a strip of parchment clutched in his fist. “Emergency meeting of the High Council. In the Strategy Room. Would you care to join us?”

Tenneth sprang from the dais without bothering with the steps. Though well into his fortieth year, he prided himself on remaining spry. “Of course.” He joined Elliat at the base of the dais and followed his heavy tread up the soiled carpet. As soon as they exited the double doors, he knew, servants would scurry in to clean up the mess left by the day’s business. By tomorrow, General Simont Basilaered would take his place on a spotless chair to sit at the end of a brilliant purple carpetway. The windows would admit clean sunlight, sparkling in the polish of the spectators’ benches.

The four sentries stationed in front of the Great Hall barely moved as the two men burst through the doors and into the main corridor. Together, they headed up the spiral staircase leading to the upper floors of the west tower in silence. Though gripped by curiosity, Tenneth knew better than to question the other in the open corridors. Matters of the Council must remain secure. Servants scurried to the banisters to grant the nobles the central, most richly carpeted, portion of the oaken stairs, most giving short bows, nods, or curtsies of respect that Tenneth scarcely noticed. Shortly, they came to the fourth-floor landing, turning left toward the thick, steel-bound door that opened onto the Strategy Room. Two guards with spears and swords snapped to stiff attention as they came into sight.

The door opened, as if of its own accord. A page started through the crack, then froze with a gasp as he caught sight of the two important men headed toward him. Caught in the worst possible position, he attempted to bow, nod, and scurry simultaneously and wound up on the floor. Ignoring his antics, Elliat stepped over the quivering boy and into the room, Tenneth a stride later. At his back, Tenneth heard the scuffle of the boy, then the door crashed shut behind him with more force than a servant would usually allow. Apparently, the child was more concerned about a swift exit than propriety.

Maps lined the strategy room’s windowless walls. An enormous eight-armed chandelier swayed in the breeze left by the hard and sudden closure of the door, flinging chaotic slashes of light and shadow across the papers, the room’s other three occupants, and the massive table and chairs taking up most of the space. A silver tray at the center held white, doughy biscuits and mugs of pulpy juice, apparently brought by the departing page.

As the highest-ranking council member, Baron Elliat took the position at the head of the table. At either hand sat Army General Simont Basilaered and Navy Lord Admiral Nikolei Neerchus. Whale-boned and muscled like plowhorses, both of the fighting men dwarfed the others at the table. Simont was a giant of a man, a head taller than even their massive king, with sable curls perched thickly atop his head, tapering into bushy sideburns, and fusing into his heavy beard. Eyes as dark as his hair lay recessed beneath wide brows, and a prominent nose gave him an air of presence. No matter where he went or how still he stood, a man’s eyes could not help but go to him. In battle, his mere presence could terrify an opponent, and he fairly radiated a charisma that kept his men in line and perfectly under his command. A decade younger than Tenneth, he had held his post for only nine years, yet the nobleman found himself nearly incapable of remembering who had served before him.

Though the navy’s lord admiral bore only the resemblance of size, he also commanded respect and obedience. He kept his wheaten hair cropped short and his face clean-shaven. Large green eyes beneath wispy brows gave him a gentle appearance that belied a smoldering temper. He moved at ease through many circles. His chiseled features and powerful position made him a favorite among the women, and he had a soft-spoken wit that earned him friendships despite his imposing size and his famous rages. That sense of humor gained an edge as annoyance flared and could become sharp and sarcastic in an instant. He could turn a man to jelly with a few bellowed words, yet he never allowed the worst fit of pique to upset a well-thought-out strategy. He knew how to fight a battle, whether with words, fists, swords, or ballistae; and he knew how to win.

Alber Evrinn perched on the chair beside General Simont. Though at least an average-sized man, he looked small and dainty beside the warrior. Tenneth took the seat across from him, certain that Lord Admiral Nikolei dwarfed him just as much. Titled a knight, like himself, Alber was the third largest landholder in Alyndar. A tasteful red and yellow hat tamed his mop of brown hair, but it accentuated his long face and small, sharp nose. The slope of his light-brown eyes gave him an eternal look of sadness, broken only by his frequent smile. A man of few words, he was on a constant mission to find himself a worthy wife, one his appearance and quietness doomed to failure.

Elliat wasted no time calling the meeting to order. When alone, they had agreed to forsake formalities. “Thank you for your patience. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I called this emergency meeting.”

Murmurs swept the table and heads bobbed, including Tenneth’s.

The baron dropped the piece of parchment to the tabletop. “I received this message, brought by Hartrinian courier dove.”

Every eye went toward the parchment, but Simont moved first. It disappeared into his enormous fist, and his eyes scanned the words. For a large man, he showed an unexpected grace and quickness that unbalanced Alyndar’s enemies.

The source of the message was significant. The rare, long-winged sea doves had a penchant for locating ships. Smarter than pigeons, they could fly out to designated places with a message before returning to their established roosts with a reply. Living on a peninsula, Alyndar owned some of the birds, though they were considered too valuable to risk for any but the most significant missions. King Idinbal of Hartrin used them regularly to identify approaching vessels, his supply larger as the birds were native to his climate and kingdom. A few other wealthy nobles also kept a few birds, which occasionally came up for sale. The last time Tenneth could recall Alyndar sending one was when they had demanded a sailor named Marak from the ketch
Raven
. Marak, it had turned out, was really the notorious criminal, Nightfall.

Simont cursed, then tossed the parchment back to the table where it was immediately snatched up by Nikolei.

“It’s from Duke Varsah.”

Tenneth sat up straighter. None of them had felt comfortable with the king’s sudden and madcap decision to personally march off to Schiz. Had Alyndar’s chancellor had the good sense to stand against the notion with the rest of his advisers, the inexperienced king would surely have abandoned his foolish notion.

Nikolei slammed his fist on the table so hard, juice sloshed from the untouched mugs. Alber jerked away from the table, and Tenneth suppressed a shiver.

Baron Elliat explained, “I’m afraid King Edward is hostage.”

Tenneth’s heart seemed to stop beating, and an imminent feeling of death stole over him. A shock of heat flashed through his entire body, followed by a dense prickle of ice. “What?” he managed, though his throat felt strangled.

Alber leaned forward, also sounding hoarse. “Duke Varsah has taken the king hostage?”

“No.” Having had more time to digest the contents of the message, Elliat corrected for those who had not yet read it. “King Edward was taken from the city against the will of the duke.” Anticipating Alber’s next question, he added, “We do not yet know by whom.”

Seized by a sudden need for movement, Tenneth shoved his chair from the table and rose. “Why? How can this happen?” Already knowing the answers, he did not wait for anyone to give them. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Bastards,” Simont growled, though whether in answer to Tenneth’s query or as an epithet, he did not specify.

Tenneth began pacing along the unoccupied side of the table.

Alber sought a more significant detail. “What about his entourage? Where were the men supposed to guard him?” A hint of accusation entered his tone, and the general immediately pounced upon it.