Coryn realized almost immediately that, somehow, the Rose Lord had enhanced his abilities-without using a magic device, which she certainly would have detected. Frankish moved in a blur, dancing around the eminently skilled-yet clearly outclassed-lord marshal. Jaymes’s parries looked sluggish; Frankish struck at will.
Again and again Frankish dashed in close to Jaymes, flicking with his rapier-leaving bloody scratches-and dancing away before the lord marshal could respond.
Coryn looked at Sir Moorvan, who was staring at the Rose Lord with undisguised irritation, even animosity. The Kingfisher’s hands twitched at his sides, as if he wished he could reach out and strangle the man. But why should the Kingfisher be upset, the wizard wondered-when Sir Moorvan surely wanted Frankish to win!
And suddenly she understood.
“You cast a spell of haste on him, didn’t you?” she hissed furiously.
He looked at her in astonishment, guilt flitting across his features, and in that instant she knew. “He was supposed to be discreet about it, wasn’t he? But he has failed his subterfuge. He is being too obvious!”
“Don’t be ridic-”
“You will dispel the magic-now!” she insisted angrily. “Or I will cast the same spell for Jaymes-and make a mockery of this whole duel! And then I will reveal your perfidy, and the lord regent’s, making it known to everyone concerned, from Palanthas to the Council of Whitestone and even the Grand Master himself!”
With a pained look, the Kingfisher squirmed in his seat. “But I can’t-”
“Do it-right now!” demanded Coryn.
Grimacing, Moorvan waved his hand at the Rose Lord, dispelling the magic, and almost immediately, the lord marshal scored his first wound of the match.
Jaymes advanced steadily now. He saw the fear growing in his opponent’s widening eyes, the sweat that increasingly sheened his forehead. Now it was the lord marshal’s turn to thrust aggressively. He shuffled his feet forward, thrust again and again, repeating the maneuvers with smooth precision. Poised on the balls of his feet, knees bent, balance distributed evenly, Jaymes advanced and drove his opponent back.
Frankish reacted weakly to the increasing tempo of Jaymes’s attacks, blocking and parrying with mounting desperation, with little suggestion of his formerly blinding speed. The lord’s reflexes had slowed considerably, and now his skills were sorely tested. All the while the lord marshal pushed at his opponent mercilessly, steadily backing him across the floor. Frankish’s best efforts could do little except hold him at bay.
When the Rose Lord tried to circle away, Jaymes gracefully cut him off with a slide to the left. When his enemy made a desperate lunge, slashing and swiping almost frantically, Jaymes stood his ground, parrying and blocking. Their blades met with increasing fury, a clash, clash, clash that melded into a steady hiss and clangor.
The lord marshal yielded not an inch, and inevitably, Frankish fell back, sweating heavily and gasping for breath. Again Jaymes took up the advance, making slow, methodical progress across the courtyard, moving no more than eight or ten inches with each gliding step. His enemy continued to retreat, nearly stumbling, until backed up against the wall, directly before Lord Regent du Chagne. Frankish was flailing now, frantically slashing against Jaymes’s blade and leaving himself wide open to thrusts.
Jaymes was toying with Frankish now, and he backed off slightly, glancing at the pale face of Lord Regent du Chagne. Smiling coldly, fixing his eyes again on his opponent’s face, Jaymes swung hard, bashing the other man’s sword to the side.
Suddenly, startling him, Lord Frankish let go of his sword. “Mercy!” he cried, dropping to one knee. “I beg mercy, upon the Oath and the-”
But Jaymes stabbed Frankish before he could finish his plea, driving the tip of his sword through his opponent’s chest and deep into the man’s heart. Even as Frankish died, the lord marshal’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other man, the noble who stared back at him with shock, fear, and fury written plainly across his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear him in time,” Jaymes said, yanking his blade free from the other man’s chest. Frankish slumped to the ground, and the lord marshal tossed the bloody weapon onto his opponent’s corpse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jaymes took his time riding away from Palanthas. For four days he traveled by horseback over the High Clerist’s Pass, along the foothills of the Vingaard range, and up to the thriving village he had founded two years earlier-the place called, simply, the Compound. He had reasons for going there, and he needed time to clear his head.
After the duel, Coryn, naturally, had wanted to teleport him directly back to his army so he could launch a plan to save Solanthus. He had made a reasonable explanation: the bridging equipment for which he had contracted in Palanthas would not reach the army for several weeks, and operations at the front would have to wait until then. He reminded her that the Vingaard was a deep, wide barrier; the river crossing was challenging, and the outcome of the campaign would depend on it. That was the truth.
But another truth he held more privately. As much as Coryn had helped him, he could not allow himself to fall completely under her influence. Though he was saddle sore by the second day of riding, though rain and wind lashed him through the high pass, he relished the discomfort. He would do things in his own time; Coryn be damned.
The parting from Selinda had been an easier test of his will, though it had involved high drama. The princess had wept and pleaded with him, clearly terrified that he would come to harm in warfare-or perhaps, that his desire to marry her would wane with time and distance. He had assured her, quite honestly, that his ardor would remain as passionate as ever, awkwardly disengaging himself from her arms and riding away.
The white gelding he rode previously had been splendid for show, but with a mountain road before him, he had left the animal in Donny’s keeping and purchased a sturdy black mare. She had proven a fast and tireless mount and seemed to share his restlessness as she climbed into the fragrant pine forests of the Vingaard foothills. Jaymes gave the mare her head, and the horse shivered with delight in the cool shade. The air was moist, and the fragrance of evergreens made a rich and soothing perfume. The rider allowed their pace to ease a little as the land rose; his customary urgency was tempered by a rare pleasure in his surroundings. This valley, his destination, might not have been home to him, but it was as close to a home as any place else in the world.
The trail climbed steadily, but the weary horse only picked up speed, as if she sensed the nearness of their destination. She trotted up a series of inclines, following the winding trail beneath the overhanging limbs of the pines, then broke into a trot as the path leveled off and the trees ended abruptly at the mouth of a wide, flat- bottomed valley.
Here the scent of pines was replaced by the acidic stink of smoke and ash. A cloud of smoke hung in the air, like a permanent stratus cloud roofing the valley, enclosing this secret place and shielding it from unwelcome eyes- as if to say “not even the gods may look here!” But to Jaymes Markham, all was as it should be in this place.
The Compound had changed a great deal over the past year. Where once a clearing had formed but a small gap in the vast forest, now the trees had been harvested not only from the valley floor, but also from the slopes of both of the adjacent ridges. The barren ground was brown, streaked with gullies and ravines where erosion had begun. Great piles of logs were stacked to the right and left, the timber drying in the air. Dwarven laborers, well paid and hard working, were busy lashing teams of horses as they hauled skids of logs, bringing more lumber down from the mountains. Others chopped and split the logs or pounded hammers into spikes as they worked at assembling buildings.
Instead of the rudimentary shacks of the original log buildings, there were long, timbered structures containing the factories, as well as a series of barracks where the workers-now numbering in the hundreds-lived and ate. The sounds of industry echoed through the whole valley, from the steady cadence of axes, the hammering of smiths, the roaring of forges, and the cacophony of overseers and foremen shouting their commands.
The arrival of the lone rider attracted notice, and messengers raced to inform their foremen and bring news to the great house in the center of the Compound. But work continued as Jaymes rode into the corral before the
