The last thought stirred a buzz of quiescent magic, and Nightfall could not suppress a shiver. He was skirting its edges too often for comfort. "Thank you, Master. Thank you so much." Rattled, he nearly lost his act, and he forced his concentration back to the role of a squire eager to prove the worth of his master’s property.
Gerbrant watched the exchange in silence, apparently catching enough to assume Edward’s consent for, if not approval of, his squire’s participation in the race. He addressed his comments to the superior. "Lord, the horses will run on Adeseele’s oat field, just south of town. Weigh-in for riders is midday." He smiled. "You’re welcome to make side bets with me or anyone else, Prince Edward."
"Thank you,” Edward said.
Gerbrant shifted methodically, obviously waiting for more from the prince, presumably a wager made in the heat of the challenging moment. When none came, he pushed back his chair, stretched, and nodded a parting amenity. "Good day, lord and squire. You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck."
"Good day," Edward returned.
Gerbrant headed from the common room, flanked by his helpers. As they retreated, the serving maid arrived with Nightfall’s breakfast. She set it before him and whisked back to her station.
Prince Edward kept his voice below the regular ebb and flow of conversation. His features crinkled with honest concern, and his pale eyes echoed the sentiment. "Sudian, I appreciate you finding a way to get money when we needed it. I confess I encouraged you when I probably shouldn’t have. Luck is a fickle mistress. It will become unfaithful too soon. When it does, I don’t want it to leave you so accustomed to winning that your mind sees nothing else."
Though painfully hungry, Nightfall gave Edward his full attention to indicate he viewed the situation as gravely as his master. “Master, thank you. Once the race is won, I’ll have enough silver to buy you what I’ve gambled for; and I won’t need any more wagers or games of chance."
Edward’s expression lapsed into one of surprise, and a strand of yellow hair fell across his forehead. The careless beauty of Prince Edward of Alyndar struck Nightfall; he seemed exactly the man women conjured in their fantasies. Though Nightfall held no interest in the looks of other men, he knew a sense of pride he could not quite explain for serving the epitome of female dreams. For the first time, he noticed the absence of the usual bitterness he had known in the presence of nobles born to wealth who flaunted their privileges like badges of honor and courage. He had scratched the surface of the prince’s ignorant naivete and found a potential wellspring of goodness beneath that matched the handsomeness of his external features. Unfortunately, it appeared that it might take a thousand men with a thousand spades to dig through the shell of guileless innocence he had built around himself since infancy. Should he become a ruler, he would prove kind to his people at the expense of his own safety and welfare. Soon enough, someone stronger and meaner would wrest authority from him unless he could find some person or group to advise and defend him.
Understanding came to Nightfall in a sudden rush. For now, he held that position, and the oath-bond bound him to perform it well. Could that have been King Rikard’s intention from the start? Could a king known as "the hammer-handed" foresee that even a cold-blooded killer’s false loyalty would become real in time? Did he send us out together in the hope that adversity would draw us closer; believing his headstrong and simple-hearted son would gain an ally nasty enough to keep even him out of trouble? The genius of such a strategy impressed Nightfall, but his heart would not allow him to believe that a father would waste time plotting such intricate strategies for the welfare of a son. No parent could give so much. Surely, his original thought, that Rikard had sent out his embarrassment to die, would prove the truth.
"You’ve worked this hard to buy something for me?" Edward’s voice shattered Nightfall’s train of thought, and it took unreasonably long to return to a conversation his mind had far outstripped. "I have everything I need. Why would you risk all and exhaust yourself for me?"
Nightfall lowered his head, seeking to reorient himself and find the proper words to answer at once. "I believe in you, Master, and all your good works. I’m buying something that can help you carry out all your Father-blessed plans." He looked up slightly, as if ashamed of the paltriness of his gift. "It’s only a small start, but it will grow."
"What is it, Sudian?"
Nightfall dropped his gaze again and shook his head vigorously. "Master, I’d rather not say yet. I would feel like I failed you if I didn’t get the money I needed. If I do get it, I’d like to surprise you. May I do that, Master?"
"Surprise me?” Edward considered the possibility, obviously unaccustomed to the idea. "Very well, surprise me then. But I don’t need gifts from you. In fact, I still owe you the wages my father didn’t pay."
"Master, you’ve handled my food, supplies, lodgings, and other needs. The pleasure of serving you is more than payment enough.” The sweetness of their exchange made Nightfall want to vomit, though the secret knowledge of his own deceit placed it all into perspective.. . at least for him. Sensing that even Prince Edward might have finally gotten an overdose of sappiness, he turned his attention to his breakfast, but not before he noticed tears of joy in his master’s eyes. And felt guilty for them.
A film of clouds muted the sun, bringing the smell of damp though no raindrops fell. The first green sprouts of the oats poked through a dark mulch speckled with ground stems from the previous year’s crop. The track consisted of a straight plow path along one edge of the growing plants, hemmed on one side by village shops and cottages and on the other by an ankle-high mound separating road from crop, newly constructed for the race. Six villagers sat in judgment at an end line cut into the ground, and a small, mixed crowd of locals and visitors leaned against buildings or sat in the alleyways to watch. Nightfall saw only a handful of the odds makers and bet takers. An impromptu horse competition drew only a modicum of interest, and they could make better money in the gambling houses at night.
Although malnutrition had kept Nightfall relatively slight, the other two riders stood significantly shorter and thinner than himself. They weighed in, allowing servants to prepare their horses. Nightfall handled his own mount. He gauged the competition, equine and human. Gerbrant’s Dash was a well-muscled gray gelding with an enormous rump. Homrihn’s Mr. Quick, a chestnut stallion, had long, lean legs and a massive chest. The latter pranced and blew until foam coated its neck and flanks. Nightfall guessed the nervous energy it expended now would cost it dearly in the race. The riders seemed more intent on the weigh-in than their mounts, with the nonchalance of men who have spent a lifetime around horses.
Nightfall judged his options carefully as his turn to weigh arrived. He looped the bay mare’s lead rope around a sapling, trusting the surrounding grass to occupy her attention. His plan required that he weigh in as heavy as possible, but common sense deemed that he do so without drawing attention to his talent. By the time he reached the flat balancing platform and sat in the middle as the others had done, he concentrated on adding another quarter to his mass. The men placed measuring weights on the stack in the opposite pan until both sides hovered the breadth of a fist from the ground, equally balanced. Nightfall glanced over, calculating the total. His weight-shifting ability was a gross process that did not allow for specific or minor modifications. The boulders on the opposite side indicated that he weighed half again as much as the lightest of the riders, reasonable for a man Nightfall’s height. He hoped that his tailored linens hid his lack of bulk well enough.