Prologue

"Again. And do it right this time."

Andre Padwing breathed heavily, wishing he could wipe away the sweat he felt sliding down his forehead. Wearily he adjusted his two-handed grip on the sword, shifting it into a guarding position. His opponent advanced carefully, then feinted quickly to the right, changing his attack at the last moment into a sweep at Andre's legs. Steel clashed against steel as Andre parried and stubbornly held his ground, forcing his opponent to retreat before launching a new assault. Back and forth they went, swords flashing and weaving deadly patterns in the air. Slowly, despairingly, Andre gave ground, forced back step by step by his opponent's tireless strength. It was happening exactly as the time before. Andre swung his sword desperately, gaining a bare second in which he tossed his head, trying to get his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. His opponent responded quicker than he could have imagined, hitting his sword with a blow that made both his hands tingle and his weapon fly half-way across the practice room. Andre found himself staring dejectedly at the sword point held a bare hand's breath away from his right eye. A moment of silence passed before his opponent made a disgusted sound and lowered his weapon.

"What was that pathetic attempt at swordplay I just saw?" Captain James Raynor spat scornfully. "I've seen raw recruits who've barely ever touched a blade do better than that! You completely let your guard fall!"

Unable to contain his frustration, Andre retorted, "You're bigger than me! And I had sweat in my eyes." Almost as soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't.

"You think every enemy you fight is going to be smaller than you? The world isn't made of midgets, my little lordling. And deal with the sweat unless you want a sword in your gut. What, were you only planning on fighting in a blizzard? What else would you like, a nice cool drink when you get winded? Hugs and kisses?"

Andre gritted his teeth and grimly tried to rub feeling back into his numb fingers, avoiding his trainer's eye. It wasn't often that he let his irritation show, knowing that he would only get a blistering lecture, so he quietly swallowed the rest of his complaints.

"Get your sword. Try it again."

Andre clamped down on a protest. It had already been a long grueling session, but it would be like Captain Raynor to push him all the harder when he was already tired. With a deep but completely silent sigh he fetched his sword and once again assumed a guarding position against his opponent.

An hour later, the Captain grudgingly growled a halt to the lesson. Andre, so exhausted that he swayed on his feet, made his unsteady way to hang up his sword and padding. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache, but there was grim satisfaction in his expression. Though he had come off worse in every bout, he had finally mastered the technique the trainer was teaching that day.

"Maybe it's possible to pound something into your head after all," Captain Raynor conceded as he put his equipment on the rack beside Andre's. "Let's hope you still remember it when the Duke comes."

Andre jerked, dropping his sword with a clatter. Absently picking it up, he tried to tally the days in his head, but they all flowed into endless lectures and sessions in the practice room. "Father's coming to visit?"

"Aye." The Captain's face and voice were expressionless. "A couple of days from now. So mind you don't embarass yourself and shame my training."

Andre finished tidying up in silence, then trekked back to his room, where mercifully the servants had already drawn a bath. He sighed in pleasure as he immersed himself until his nose was barely above the water and closed his eyes blissfully. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and tried to focus his mind on his father's visit, but it was only minutes before he drifted to sleep, lulled by the water's gentle warmth and his own exhaustion.

The sound of someone clearing his throat loudly jerked Andre awake. The servant raised an eyebrow at him. "Shall I serve dinner, my lord?"

"Ah. Uh, yes, please." Flushing, Andre plunged his hands into the water and splashed it over his head, gasping and shivering at the now cold water. The chink-chink of plates and silverware sounded behind him as the servant set the table. Suddenly famished, Andre quickly towelled himself dry and pulled on his thick bath robe.

Three months, he thought as he sat down to dinner. Three months since Father's last visit. The tree in the courtyard was just putting out green buds last time, and now it's in full bloom. Yes, three months. He frowned as another thought hit him. I must be ten-years-old now. My birthday is in the spring. Is it too early? No, I must be ten by now.

He pictured his tall, stern father and shivered, hastily turning his thoughts elsewhere. Maybe Grandmother will be with him this time, he thought with a smile, his spirit rising despite his fatigue. I hope she comes. At least when she looks at me, she's really seeing me, not--. He pushed his empty plate away abruptly, knowing his thoughts were straying into dangerous waters. Rubbing his face tiredly, he climbed into bed, for once blessing the arduous hours spent in the practice room and the bone-deep weariness that kept him from dwelling on his thoughts.

***

Andre cautiously circled Captain Raynor, testing the footing with each step and mindful of his guard. The Captain made a quick thrust, easily parried, and Andre returned the attack. He focused himself on the fight, clearing his mind of all other thoughts, narrowing his world to the sharp points of two swords and the fearful, beautiful dance of life and death around them. It was a relief to be back in the practice room with only the simple, stark truths of two bared blades, and he poured the tension and strain of the past two days into his attacks, even finding a level of exhilaration in the exercise.

Two figures stood at the side of the room, one a handsome man in his thirties, the other an elderly lady in her sixties, slightly stooped with age. Cecil Padwing, Duke of Savois, calmly surveyed the progress of the fight. Charcoal-gray eyes coldly appraised both combatants, then rested on the boy, holding off his opponent with determination and skill more commonly found in one much older. Beside him, his mother Delores Ashton Padwing, the Dowager Duchess, was likewise gazing at his son, but in contrast her soft hazel eyes were filled with unfathomable sadness and regret. Her hands clutched fearfully at a gold-topped cane and from time to time she shifted her look from Andre to her son with an imploring expression which went completely ignored.

On the floor, Andre was showing signs of tiring, unable to cope with the stamina of his opponent. Captain Raynor drove him mercilessly, knowing that the duke's critical eye would catch the slightest hint of holding back. Finally, his sword snaked around Andre's guard, found a spot where the padding did not reach, and scored a thin red line across his arm, drawing a gasp from the boy's grandmother. Andre barely winced before reluctantly lowering his sword and admitting defeat. They saluted each other, then the two spectators. The duke acknowledged them with a brief nod, while his mother passed a shuddering hand over her eyes.

"Not bad, Captain," Cecil murmured quietly, approaching. "There's room for improvement, but I dare say he might be of use some day."

Andre ground his teeth but kept his expression neutral. He stood still under his father's inspection, as usual mesmerized by the man's eyes, impersonal and cold as the storm clouds of winter. There was a touch of madness in them, Andre knew. A glimmer of irrational rage and grief that saw him and yet did not see him, transforming him from son into instrument of revenge. He shuddered convulsively when his father finally looked away.

All the same, he could feel the familiar, terrible longing welling up inside. For one affectionate gesture, one look not tainted with cold calculation. The desire was so strong he actually took a small step forward toward his father. As though sensing Andre's thoughts, Captain Raynor turned and gave Andre a fierce, warning look before engaging the Duke's attention himself. Andre stood forlornly to the side, full of both relief and sorrow at being spared the opportunity of confronting his father.

Instead, a beckoning gesture from his grandmother caught his eye, and he went gladly to her side. They had had only a few minutes together since the duke's arrival two days ago. Andre's various instructors had compiled a series of difficult tests to show off their pupil's progress, and he had missed the long talks he had with the old lady. They understood each other, both having to deal with the vagaries of the duke's will, both equally powerless to sway him, for all that she was his mother. Andre bowed politely over her hand and kissed the wrinkled cheek she presented.

"Grandmother." He smiled, hiding the pain that his father didn't even notice his absence.

"Shouldn't you get that looked after, child?" she asked, pointing a shaking finger at his arm.

Andre looked at the fresh blood with some surprise, having already forgotten it. The thin shirt he wore under the padding clung to the wound, stopping the bleeding. He shrugged. "Just a scratch. The captain's given me worse before." He could have kicked himself for his insensitive remark as she paled, and he hastily added, "I'll have it cleaned and bound, grandmother."

He looked around, but the duke was already at the door to the practice room, still engaged in talking to the captain. Taking that as a sign of dismissal, he hurriedly stripped off his padding and piled it haphazardly on the rack while his grandmother waited patiently. They walked back to his room together, where a servant bathed the cut with warm, scented water and bound it with clean bandages.

"I have a birthday present for you, child." She said when they were alone, holding out a thin, colorfully wrapped package. "I know it's a few weeks late, but I think you'll like it."

Andre took the package from her but didn't open it immediately. Instead, he went and sat beside her on the bed, cuddling up to her side. "You're the best present I could have, grandmother," he muttered into the thick fabric of her clothing. He remained that way for a couple of minutes while her arms encircled him, then pulled away gently. He eyed the package with curiosity, indulging in delightful speculation about its contents. It was rectangular and heavy for its size. A book perhaps? He ripped off the paper and blinked at the object that fell out.

It was a silver picture frame. A young woman smiled at him from the painting inside. She was about sixteen, and very beautiful. Positioned so that she was looking over her shoulder at the artist, the picture showed the top of what must have been a dazzling gown, green silk hugging her arms but leaving her back bare. Her lustrous dark brown hair was piled high on her head in an elegant coiffure, threaded with pearls. Her smile showed perfectly white and even teeth and a single beauty spot offset the soft cream of her skin. Stunned, Andre gazed into ocean-green eyes that exactly mirrored his own, glinting with laughter. She was a lovely girl, on the cusp of womanhood, perhaps happy and excited to be attending her first ball.

Andre stared at her wordlessly. He had only vague memories of her, more a sense of soothing comfort than anything else. His mother, Iria Hartford Padwing. She had died years ago, leaving a son just two-years-old and a young adoring husband behind. In all the years since, he had never seen a picture of her. His father had ordered every family portrait that included her taken down and locked away. I look like her, he thought distractedly, examining the picture closely.

"She was such a pretty thing," his grandmother murmured. "So sweet and thoughtful. You have her eyes." She smiled sadly, stroking his hair with a wrinkled hand. "Cecil would have destroyed it, but this was a present from her to me, and he had no right to it. I have kept this picture all these years, to give to you. You are very much like her."

The picture grew blurred as tears came to Andre's eyes. The reference to his father turned his happiness into ash. Angrily, he wiped his eyes and tossed the frame beside him on the bed. "I'm not like her at all," he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "After all, he loved her, didn't he?"

There was a moment's shocked silence. "Oh child!" she folded him into an embrace. "Oh child, he loves you too. I know it's hard to believe, but he is my son, and as surely as I love him, so does he love you."

Andre remained stiff in her arms for a minute, then softened into the comforting hug with a suppressed sob. She held him and sang softly to him, silly children's songs that his mother must once have sung. After a while, she realized that he had quieted, that the emotional and physical strains had imparted the peacefulness of a child's slumber. Gently, carefully, she put him in bed, wiping away a final trace of tears on his soft, pale cheeks.

"Stars, watch over him," she breathed in prayer over his sleeping form. "Protect my grandson from his father, my son."

>> "Chapter 1 - Coming of Age"