Nightfall had packed the longest-keeping rations toward the back, and he discovered a couple week’s worth of hard bread, cheese, and jerked pork still well-wrapped. The remainder of the food was a loss, and the vast majority of crockery lay shattered on the path. Shifting the hole closed, he retied the pack.
"… didn’t realize things had gone this far. Usually, they’re spread all over town. They don’t seem like quite so many then. They’ve never done this before."
Nightfall believed the guardsmen. If the beggars routinely caused damage like this, he suspected the overlord would have rounded them up and killed or expelled them by now. At the least, the sentries at the edge of town would have provided Prince Edward an escort. Surely, they never expected him to indiscriminately hand silver to beggars. Nightfall shook his head, blaming pain for his own incaution. Even I didn’t think him stupid enough to dangle steak in front of starving wolves. His lapse bothered him. A passion to champion those in need, a rabble of the Peninsula’s scummiest, and a prince with no idea of the value of money or the desperation hunger breeds. What else should I have expected?
The guards continued, now escorting Prince Edward toward the inn. "We’re really very sorry, young Prince. Of course, your stay and food at the inn are on us. And your squire’s healing is free. Are you sure you’re not hurt, lord?"
Finally, the guards paused long enough to allow the prince to answer. "I’m fine," he said. "No harm done."
No harm done! Just two weeks of food left, four silver to our name, and a bleeding squire. Nightfall seized the tow rope of the packhorse and the white’s reins, limping in the bay mare’s wake.
Chapter 7
Razor claws and fiery eyes,
Leathern wings to cleave the skies.
His soul within stark midnight froze Darkness comes where Nightfall goes.
– "The Legend of Nightfall"
The familiar coarse wood construction of Delfor’s common room soothed Nightfall after the beggars’ antics in the streets. The inn had become a staple in the farming village even long before Telwinar’s arrival, and its rough-hewn beams, beer-stained tables, and blended aromas of alcohol, food, and honest perspiration seemed a haven after a hard day of labor. Edward sat amid a friendly ring of guardsmen, having bathed; and Nightfall felt secure leaving the prince in the hands of the overlord’s men while he tended the horses, then cleaned and stowed their gear. The accommodations were simple but clean, the food fresh from the tiny personal gardens each farmer kept to supplement his family’s income. The excess, such as it was, usually found its way here.
Nightfall had lingered over the basin and pitcher of water supplied by the innkeeper. Of his regular personae, only Balshaz the merchant concerned himself with cleanliness. Now, scrubbed skin and no need for paint, grease, and dyes made him feel strangely free despite his servitude. The gelding’s foamy spit washed easily from his short-cut, mahogany locks, a welcome change from Marak’s itchy tangle that had taken its color more from dirt and grime than dye. He gathered up their travel-dusty clothing for the washerwoman on the opposite side of town. He had some experience with laundering, but filth had become a familiar accessory to his masquerades and he knew nothing about the proper care of silk. He had left the tied bundle of clothing and one of Edward’s silver coins in the hands of a local boy whose integrity he trusted, with explicit instructions to give money and garments to the washerwoman. The boy was told to report directly to him if the woman gave him less than four coppers for his trouble.
His work finished, Nightfall finally joined Prince Edward in the common room, scarcely managing to wolf down winter-stored turnips, peas, and squash before two more of the overlord’s guards arrived. These bowed briefly, then one addressed the prince. "Prince Edward, the Healer can see your squire now."
Edward looked up from his food and company to reply. "Excellent, thank you." He glanced at Nightfall. "I’ll be here or in the room, Sudian."
Nightfall rose reluctantly, dinner only half-finished. They had eaten well enough on the trip, but the work had left him hungry and cooked vegetables seemed far superior to the hard tack they had consumed for the past week. He glanced at Prince Edward, assessing the situation fully before leaving the prince’s side. Delfor possessed nothing more dangerous than an occasional mean-spirited traveler in the worst of times. Poor farm villages rarely attracted thieves, even should Edward still have had money to steal. Nightfall believed the beggars would stay away. Though soft-hearted with the natives, the innkeeper brooked no nonsense from strangers, especially those who would not or could not pay for what they ate or harmed those who could. The rabble wanted Edward’s money, not his life; and they surely knew they would earn no goodwill from him or other nobility if they mobbed him again. For the moment, Edward had a protective retinue of village guardsmen as well.
The two Delforian guards escorted Nightfall from the common room and back into the main street, their hovering presence an uncomfortable reminder of his arrest in Alyndar. Mired in exhaustion, worry, and pain, he floundered for the knife-edged clarity of mind he relied on in the most menacing situations. The Healer seemed god-sent, appearing in the most unlikely place at a time when he needed the service. That stroke of luck concerned him far more than the presence of a pair of guards he could dispose of, if necessary, even one-handed. Anything convenient was a trap until proven coincidence.
As the three walked past shops and cottages, Nightfall sought information, keeping his queries and comments within the realm of normal curiosity. "The wound is deep. I appreciate your effort and generosity, but I doubt there’s much this Healer can do for me."
The guards exchanged knowing smiles that unnerved Nightfall. "Genevra’s good,” the one to his right said. "She’s fixed a lot of injuries people doubted she could help."
Nightfall studied the speaker’s wide, friendly features. A brown mustache hid his upper lip. Coloring and the set of his face identified him as a Delforian native, and his accent fit the region. "Obviously she’s someone important. I never saw a town so protective of a Healer, nor any Healer with such a following.” Nightfall made a broad gesture that included the sparse beggars but also indicated the incident from earlier in the day. The guilt that came from the reminder might make the guards more talkative.
“She’s a special Healer," the same man said. "Doesn’t use herbs or stitches or nothing.”
The other guard, also a native Delforian cut in, "She’s got some sort of magical power, but she ain’t like no sorcerer I ever heared tell of."
Just the pronouncement of "sorcerer" sent Nightfall’s throat spasming closed. His step faltered for an instant, but he otherwise gave no sign of his distress. He searched for solace and guidance, finding it in the realization that Genevra far more likely belonged among the one out of every thousand with a natal ability than the one out of five thousand with a bent toward sorcery. The realization did little to allay anxiety, however. Hunting and slaying sorcerers probably kept the numbers of natally empowered and sorcerers even, and he had never heard of one of the congenitally gifted sharing her skill so flagrantly. Still, it made just as little sense for a sorcerer to do so. They could gain their spells by ritualistically slaughtering other sorcerers as well as from the innocently gifted. Unless she’s so competent she’s trying to draw other sorcerers to her. That brought another idea to the fore, one that might help him differentiate natal from captured skill. Dyfrin had a theory that the gifted could operate their powers by thought alone, perhaps accompanied by a simple point or touch when those abilities required directing. Sorcerers, however, needed to torment their stolen and bonded souls to activate their powers, a process that required gestures and/or words.