Chapter 1
Baucent Stronghold
Great Smoky Mountains, North Carolina
“You’re a pretty lad,” Etienne Guelard, the swordsman wielding three feet of razor-sharp, copper-clad steel, told Jamys Durand. “One step more and you’ll not be.”
Murmured wagers swept round the loose circle of half-naked onlookers as their watchful eyes shifted from the massive brute waiting inside the warriors’ circle to Jamys, who stood just outside the perimeter.
Beyond the sprawling compound of Baucent, nightfall had drawn its deep amethyst cloak across the mountains; its gilded edges had narrowed the glittering gold of sunset to a silken fringe of tangerine. November had sharpened the wind from crisp to cutting, and turned to diamond density every drop of moisture touched by its wintry breath. Ten thousand acres of evergreens stood guard among the bare, leafless branches and trunks of kin that the long, dark months had already sent to sleep.
Jamys kept his back turned against the modernized version of a medieval mansion. Tonight he could not retreat to the safety of his father’s house.
The mortal architect who had been commissioned to design the mountain fortress of Baucent had never understood the need for the broad, walled space at the back of the main house, or why the owner had vetoed any landscaping for it. The human had not been told that the space would be called the lists, or that it would serve as the training area for the stronghold’s garrison of warriors. To the architect, it had been merely a football-field-size rectangle of packed dirt.
“Don’t hurt the boy, Tien,” one of the guards called out from his watch post above the lists. “The master will have your head.”
Being goaded about his adolescent appearance never aggravated Jamys; as an immortal Darkyn he had lived with his youthful form for more than seven centuries. He had gone to his mortal grave before he had matured, and since rising to walk the night, he had never aged another day. He would forever look like a boy of seventeen.
It did not, however, make him a boy.
He ignored the voices as he measured his opponent’s readiness. Tien’s scent, as sharp and clean as lemongrass, enveloped the air around him. Although he had threatened to spoil Jamys’s face, Tien had dug in his heels and held his wrist ready to turn his weapon to a specific thrusting angle; he would attack first with a jab to the upper arm. Jamys had watched all the men practicing, and knew Tien favored disabling to disarm an opponent. That practice made him the boldest and most effective member of the garrison’s front line.
That knowledge provided Jamys with a distinct advantage. Because he trained alone or with his father, the men of the garrison had never seen him spar or fight.
“Challenge night is for the warriors of the jardin, not coddled whelps. Is this not so, men?” Although he spoke to the crowd, Tien never took his eyes off Jamys. “Did not your sire inform you of this? Or are you as deaf as you are dumb?”
The casual insult effectively rendered silent the men surrounding the circle. All of them knew that torture at the hands of their enemies had deprived Jamys of his ability to speak and, for a time, his mind. He had not realized they still believed him mute, however.
No wonder Tien employed his own tongue so freely; he assumed Jamys couldn’t respond in kind—or repeat his insults to their master.
Jamys could speak now, but despite long hours of solitary practice he still could not speak quickly or with any ease. It was simpler to remain silent and use his ability to speak through the mortal servants of the keep to convey his wishes. After tonight he would have to rethink that.
“Lord Jamys,” Coyan, the garrison captain, spoke in a gentle tone. “If you will return tomorrow sunset, I will be glad to practice with you.”
“Our lord shall never give you leave to breathe hard on him, Coy.” Tien made an impatient sound. “Go back to the house, whelp. You have wasted enough of my night.”
The scent of sandalwood shed by Jamys’s own skin quickly overwhelmed the lemon-scented air inside the ring. For the object of his desires he could bear any amount of insolence or derision. Being reminded of the weight of his father’s love, however, was almost enough to provoke him to recklessness.
Almost enough.
Jamys stepped over the line, turning on the toe of his boot and arching away from the dark metal blade that punched through the air his right arm no longer occupied. As Tien swung round to follow through, Jamys switched his grip on his sword from right to left, using the flat of the blade to deliver a heavy blow to the back of the bigger man’s broad shoulder.
As the men shouted and Tien staggered, Jamys moved in behind him, forcing him to spin again while still unsteady. That provided Jamys the opportunity to kick the sword from Tien’s hand and hook his leg to knock him on his ass. He poised the tip of his own sword against the bigger man’s septum.
All the voices, movements, and sounds within the lists went as still as Tien himself.
Jamys regarded him. “Pretty nose.”
Some of the men uttered low chuckles. Tien’s eyes widened, and he swallowed before he said, “I like it.”
“Then concede, you idiot,” Coyan advised him, “before you lose that, too.”
Jamys held the blade for another long moment before he lowered it and offered his free hand to Tien.