The Return of Nightfall by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page A

substantial reassurance, Nightfall complied. “I’ll let those in charge know of your regret and, when I can, inform His Majesty of your invitation.”
    “Thank you.” Duke Varsah smiled, but his eyes revealed calculation. “I’ll send two parties to Alyndar: one by sea, which is faster, and the other by land to return Alyndar’s horses. You can choose which group to join. My men will help carry belongings and see to it you arrive safely.” He added, as if in afterthought, “And I’ll table the king’s past crimes, and your own, until his return visit.”
    Weighted by exhaustion, tired of the game, Nightfall saw how he could end it with a simple nod. He had disposed of Varsah’s notion of execution, of turning a few moments of private conversation into some world-shattering and horrendous lie. They had even chatted calmly, each daring to expose a bit of vulnerability to the other. For now, that should have been enough; and yet, to Nightfall’s mind, it was not. “Lord, I appreciate the escort, and I’m sure Alyndar’s . . .” Forgetting the term the duke had used for the gathering of highborns, he substituted, “. . . gentry will appreciate your efforts.” He left his tone open for a challenge. “I hesitate to contradict . . .”
    The wrinkles deepened on Varsah’s hoary face, and all sign of worry and weakness disappeared.
    “ . . . but I believe, given the circumstances and location of King Edward’s kidnapping . . .”
    The red circles reappeared at the duke’s cheeks, and a vessel pulsed in his temple.
    “ . . . that all of our so-called ‘past crimes’ . . .”
    The duke’s fists clenched, and the scarlet gained an edge of violet.
    “ . . . should be put to rest.” Nightfall added, in case his attempt at flowery language had not been completely clear, “Forgiven. Forever.” Then, as it seemed a long time since he had spoken a title, he added, “Duke Varsah.”
    The duke looked about ready to explode. Veins now pounded at both of his temples, and his face had gone positively dark, his eyes narrowed and his brows arched low. He ground his teeth, saying nothing.
    Politely, Nightfall waited. The last time the duke had looked like this, Nightfall had wound up imprisoned. Then, Varsah had called him ill-mannered and lowly bred, some of the truest words ever spoken. Now, however, the tables had turned. Whatever Nightfall’s past, he walked in royal circles, trusted by a king. The city of Schiz needed to curry favor with Alyndar. It was one thing for Nightfall to return with the news that the mission which had sent them to Schiz never got completed, quite another for him to report that, despite the king’s kidnapping, Duke Varsah had refused it. Almost by accident, he had cornered the duke and earned himself a strong enemy in the process.
    “Without restitution? Without a wedding for my humiliated and violated daughter?”
    Nightfall knew he could tell the duke’s men to bring the loaded chest to Varsah, knew that would placate some of the man’s anger. But, at the moment, he savored Varsah’s discomfort. Nightfall had despised the duke when the first condescending words dropped from his lips at their original meeting. He had wanted to best the obnoxious duke of Schiz since the idea of marrying Willafrida to Alyndar’s king had first crossed the old bat’s mind. Dyfrin would advise him otherwise; Edward would revile his tactics. This time, however, Nightfall stayed true to himself, turning the words of those highly ethical examples against Varsah. “A man of principle needs neither blood nor money to do what’s right.”
    Varsah’s fists cinched the plush arms of his chair so tightly, he left indentations in the shape of every finger. “Very well,” he spat. “You’re free to go, and my men will join you in the morning for the journey back to Alyndar.” He leaned forward, brown eyes seeking Nightfall’s attention.
    Nightfall let him have the full effect of his evil blue-black