A quiet presence shifted next to him, clinging to the rail of the ship as it tossed in the waves. Dawn had come, signaling the start of their journey, and in the distance he could see the outline of the villa. The light from a candle burned from one of the windows, guttering with faint illumination. Through the dark veil his mother wore Nico thought he saw the glimmer of a tear, hastily brushed away.

"My sister," she said, "has always hated goodbyes. It is a trait we share."

"Will you return, Mother?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, voice betraying no hint of doubt. "It is my home, the only one I have ever known. Someday, when I feel the press of years upon my old bones, I will return, that I may rest beside your father."

"Not for many years," he said, squeezing her hand. The muscles beneath the black widow's garb were still firm, and he knew his mother to be both strong and capable far beyond her advanced age.

Next to them, a deep voice layered with a Gallic intonation interrupted their conversation. Andre de Chauvigny seemed intent on the telling of his life story during the course of the voyage, and he had begun as soon as they boarded the ship. Nico let him ramble on as they sailed first to Genoa and then to Marseille, glad to have a reprieve from his own restive thoughts.

"This was not the first time I have visited your land. I was part of the cavalry that served Valentino, him that was once called…"

"Cesare Borgia," Betta interrupted, her face set behind the black veil. She radiated impatience with the soldier's interminable posturing so clearly that Nico felt a stirring of pity. Were he to annoy her too greatly, Andre de Chauvigny would never return home, experienced warrior though he might be.

"Had you met him?" The knight seemed crestfallen, that the splendor of his association could be eclipsed.

"I had that pleasure," Betta said, the trace of a smile hidden from all did not know her well. Nico raised his eyebrows slightly and a flush colored her face. Not the Holy Father, Nico surmised, remembering the slur his cousin had hurled. Il Valentino.

"Hmmph," Andre was at a loss of how to continue. Then he brightened as he looked to the west. "A storm blows this way!" He said gleefully, and his eyes misted over. "When I traveled to Navarre with Valentino…"

The knight's words continued, but Nico paid him little mind. In the distance, a line of black storm clouds was approaching, and he eyed them with concern. Though he suffered no effects from the tossing of the ship upon the waves, his mother was a notoriously bad traveler, and her face had grown paler as they ventured farther from into the churning depths. She caught his scrutiny and shrugged, face resigned.

When they finally arrived at Marseille, Nico was forced to carry his mother ashore. The storm had lasted for days, tossing the ship until his mother could do no more than clutch at a bucket and moan in misery. The storm spent itself as they neared France, turning instead to the south. They disembarked from the small craft as the sun was setting, and the force of the waves crashing to the shore sent icy droplets against their faces.

Nico breathed in the briny tang of the air, relishing the feel of the new land. His eyes darted around. Marseille was a huge city spreading out in all directions, and rich beyond his wildest imaginings. Strong white walls surrounded it, newly built to repel any invasion. Spices from impossibly distant kingdoms were carried ashore by dark skinned slaves. Herds of cattle and goats were driven through the streets. Bolts of brilliant cloth decked both the market stalls and the beautiful women who clustered there.

Cradled in his arms and unable to appreciate the glory that surrounded her, Elizabetta de Corella groaned. She weighed little more than a child and shivered uncontrollably. With her cracked lips and sunken eyes, she appeared to have aged a decade, and Nico sent for a healer as soon as they were settled in the comfortable lodgings that the Duchess had provided.

The healer, a stooped, aged man with a scar that formed a twisting cannon from his hairline to his jaw, decided that his mother was suffering from an excess of phlegm, and brought out a filthy knife and bowl to bleed her. Despite her weakened state, the man soon fled in terror, and his mother called Nico to her side.

"Go," she commanded from her sick bed. "Greet the Duchess in my stead. When I have recovered, I will join you."

"Who will care for you in my absence?" he asked, concerned by the continuing evidence of her frailty.

A trace of fire lit her expression. "I need no one to care for me, only for the ground to cease shifting beneath my feet." Then, seeing his concern, her tone softened. "There are servants here to attend me, my son, and I shall ask Monsieur de Chauvigny to stay and speak to me of Cesare Borgia. His excessive posturing will encourage the return of my health, if only to to quit his company. And when I have recovered, we will fly together to your sister's side."

Although verbose, Andre de Chauvigny was an efficient commander, and gathered a small company of men to escort Nico from Marseille to a chateau near Lyon, where the Duchess had taken leave from her court duties for a time. The landscape of the Rhone Valley spun in reckless flight past his eyes as they traveled, changing the horses often. Beautiful women with skin of dark honey smiled at him from small villages where flowers bloomed in profusion despite the late season, and patches of wild rosemary and clary sage grew among the ruins of another age. The land embraced Nico like a friend, and he gloried in it. The air in the valley was not so dry and seemed little touched by the coming autumn; rather it breathed warm and sultry, the caress of skin, dampened by the act of love.

After many day's travel they neared Lyon and the Chateau de Bagnols, where the Duchess of Valentinois waited.

The chateau sat on a small knoll overlooking an intensely green range of hills that rippled like water to the horizon. Comprised of a single massive building with curved edges, the chateau appeared both luxurious and capable of defending the inhabitants from attack. Constructed of warm, pale stone and surrounded by grape vines, it reminded him of home.

Liveried servants bustled in the yard, mingling with a company of men who comprised the Duchess's guard. He was allowed to refresh himself before being presented, and given a simple meal.

For his first meeting with the Duchess he wore black, the finest apparel at his disposal: black tunic and hose, soft black shoes that allowed him to glide along the stone halls. The traveling cloak he had purchased at Grosetto lay across his shoulders, it's deep hood suitable for hiding his features. Sounds echoed disconcertingly in the massive stone halls and wide courtyard of the chateau, which showed signs of disrepair. Spiders left dazzling displays of the spinner's art in every corner, and the tapestries and hangings that sought to warm the stark interior were frayed at the edges, and covered in dust.

The Duchess sat before a small table in front of a roaring fire. Though the afternoon burned warmly outside, the thick walls of the chateau chilled the air. Ladies finely clad waited nearby, sewing with demure expressions. As was his habit, Nico took note of the room's occupants and the various means by which he could escape, if it should it become necessary. Two men waited in an alcove, and watched his every move. Nico spared them no more than a glance. Had they possessed skills that would challenge him, they would have stood closer to their lady. He could have killed her and the attendants and left through the open door before the guards had traversed the room.

Spread out before the duchess were piles of ledgers and sheafs of correspondence . In her gown of midnight cloth accented with seed pearls, Louise de Borgia looked as remote as a queen who did not deign to notice his existence, though his arrival had been announced. It was a tactic whose purpose Nico recognized. He was meant to fidget and stammer before her glory, and learn his place.

So he stood still, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the Duchess. She looked no older than Lucia, and though not truly beautiful, what he could see of her face was striking. Strong of jaw and cheekbone, her features were carved, and attractive even while pinched in frustration. Dark hair that hinted at riotous curls was tamed by a jeweled hood, and her slender form radiated vitality.

A shout heard from the open window caught the duchess's attention, ending the silent contest of wills. After a word to one of her attendants , Louise de Borgia's gold-flecked eyes pierced him, and Nico felt a tingle of awareness shoot like lightening through his body. Power, his instincts screamed, and formidable intelligence, and something else that he struggled to define. There was a sense, looking into her proud face, that she could reshape the world according to her own desires, not limited by nebulous concepts such as morality or virtue. It was something he had seen infrequently in his sister, and in her, the force of it was muted by an impulse towards holiness. Louise, the Duchess of Valentinois, had few of her sister's scruples. This was Borgia, he realized, the family who would have conquered the world.

The Duchess studied him in turn, missing nothing. She lingered over the bright copper hair, newly washed and hanging in curls to his shoulders, and the jaw untainted by stubble.

"How lovely you are," she mused in flawless Italian.. "Though nothing like my dear Lucia."

Nico bowed, hand held over his heart."We share no blood, my lady, but she is my sister."

"And will you see to her protection and care?" The Duchess's right eyebrow formed a perfect arch as she studied him.

"With my life."

As though his answer pleased her, the Duchess presented a hand to be kissed.

Nico took the offered hand, heavy with jeweled rings, and bowed over it. In the second before his mouth met the skin of her knuckles he looked up, challenging her with the force of his gaze. He found her both stunning to behold and fascinating, and made no effort to disguise it.

An answering awareness lit the Duchess's features, then her expression turned quizzical. "How old are you, child. Sixteen?"

He bowed again, not correcting her estimation of his age. "I am no child," he answered.

"No, I think you are not," she said. "Your father was in service to my own?"

Nico nodded.

"Micheletto de Corella," she whispered. "Even I have heard rumors of my father's dark lieutenant. Would you serve me, as your father served Cesare Borgia? Do you possess skills that I could find of use?"

"The man who boasts of his skill often shames his teachers, my lady. But I have been well taught."

"Hmmm," she mused. "I know many men who would find your beauty and intelligence beguiling. You will sit next to me for the evening meal, that we may discuss this further."

"I place myself at your disposal, Duchessa," he murmured.

The Duchess laughed. "You speak as though you were a seasoned courtier, not a youth, Nico. How glad I am that you have come at last."

Throughout the course of the meal he was conscious of the duchess's close scrutiny. Her agile mind flitted from topic to topic, discussing the crumbling alliance of her king with Henry Tudor and the machinations of the Holy Father, the grand church he was beggaring Christendom to build and the fantastic discoveries of a new world awaiting exploration across the ocean. The wine she consumed appeared to relax her, and the formidable reserve lessened.

"What do you think of this place?" She asked, gesturing around the hall. They sat alone at the massive table, a feast of considerable magnitude bending the ancient boards. "The owner has offered it to me for a goodly price."

"It is…" He searched around in his mind for the word. "Unloved."

Her head titled. "What do you mean?"

Nico felt nervous, as though he had expressed a thought too close to his own heart. "Our home in Grosetto. It is small, and not so fine, but the stones soak up the warmth of the sun. The halls ring with the echoes of laughter and song. This place only whispers of things long past. It has known little happiness. Though of course the vines are very fine." He had noticed them while approaching the chateau, seemingly so much older and richer than the ones adorning the hills around his home.

"Will you return there, Nico de Corella, when your sister rises from childbed?"

He shook his head, and settled back in his chair to better observe her. The light from braces of candles softened her face, enriching it to beauty. Sparks caught on the gold threads in her gown and the heavy necklace she wore, set with blue stones that dripped into the valley between her breasts. Tearing his eyes away from the beguiling vision she presented, he looked into his goblet of wine. He tilted it, examining the ruby liquid, and swirled it until the fruity scent filled his nostrils, drowning out the fragrance of lilies which the Duchess wore. He sipped the wine, finding it smooth and delicious, like the touch of a woman's skin.

"I would make my own way in life," he said. "And I would find a worthy master to serve," he looked up, catching her eyes, and intimate knowledge flowed between them. Nico thought, staring into her face, that he had never known another who understood him so well. "Or a mistress."

The duchess leaned forward and touched his hand. "And what would you desire in return for such fealty?"

"Experience," he said. "And knowledge."

Louise did not remove her hand. The words hung between them. She did not pretend to misunderstand, and a similar longing settled over her features. "Yes," she breathed, moving forward until she balanced on the edge of the chair. "You would seize the world with both hands and drink it dry."

"And savor it."

Their eyes met again, bodies separated by no more than a thought. Nico clenched his hand around the goblet until his fingers turned white, controlling the wild urge to touch her. Louise's lips formed in an enigmatic smile.

The entrance of the Duchess's ladies into the hall stopped the flow of their conversation. Shaking herself, Louise rose, and presented her hand to be kissed.

"In the morning, we will ride together, that we may speak in private."

"My lady," he said, bowing and then watching the gentle sway of her skirts as she exited the hall. He sat and finished the wine, thinking of the way the pulse had jumped in her throat at the touch of his mouth. It was a long time before he could find his rest.

Nico broke his fast in the morning before the Duchess made her appearance. He had slept poorly, mind plagued by images of fornication and death.

The Duchess looked to share his disquiet. Her face was pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes. After she had eaten, the Duchess led him from the hall, absenting herself for a moment to retrieve a long cloak. When she had returned, Nico followed her to where two horses waited. She mounted with the assistance of a groom and then looked back at him, confident and easy in the saddle.

"Can you see to my safety?" She asked, arching an eyebrow. "Or shall I have my guards follow?"

Nico allowed himself a smile. "What small skills I possess are yours to command."

Louise opened her mouth to respond, then shook her head and touched a whip to her horse's side. They guided their mounts through the courtyard, skirting a milling hoard of servants. Nico had no difficulty discerning which of those had ventured to the chateau with the Duchess and who had served at Bagnols for generations. Louise's servants looked on her fondly, and called greetings and well wishes as they trotted past. The others were carved from stone, with no hint of emotion clouding their faces.

Side by side, they exited the gate. She urged her horse into a gallop, finding a winding path that led from the chateau to the nearby hills. Autumn was beginning to paint the leaves with a dazzling brush and Nico inhaled, tasting the bite of the air. Birds flushed from the fields, and in pockets of soft earth he could discern the faint tracks of predators, their steps as light as morning dew.

The Duchess was a formidable rider. She maintained only loose control of her mount, allowing the spirited animal its head. Nico followed her lead, urging his horse onward after the elusive figure that raced ahead, reckless as a bird released from her cage.

When the horses were soaked in sweat, Louise slowed. A stand of trees marked the curving of the path into a rocky promontory that overlooked a lake whose deep blue waters sparkled in the sunshine.

"We will walk from here," Louise said.

Nico slid from his horse and moved to where the duchess waited. He helped her dismount, and the hands he curled around her narrow waist burned. He stood so close that he could inhale the scent she favored, like lilies and gold. On her head the Duchess wore a velvet cap with a long, curving feather. He touched it, sliding a finger down the downy length, stopping when the heat from her cheek pulsed a breath from his skin.

"Stop flirting with me," she snapped, brushing his hand aside. Bright spots of color troubling her face. "Else I shall accept your offer. I have been without the touch of a man for far too long and I doubt you would escape the encounter unscathed." Her accent grew more pronounced as she spoke, layering her Italian with viscous intent.

"I have been bloodied before," he said, not moving away.

Louise breathed through her nose and muttered a coarse word in French under her breath that make Nico laugh.

After a startled moment, the Duchess joined him. Her laugh seemed girlish and surprisingly innocent after their charged conversation, and at odds with her sophisticated mien.

"Nico de Corella," she pronounced, shaking her head ruefully, "You will be a man unlike any I have known. I do not know if I should pity the woman that you will someday take to wife, or envy her." Then she waved her own words aside. "What do you know of your sister?"

They walked, reaching a small outcropping of rocks etched from the hillside. In the distance he could hear the voices of shepherds, leading their flocks to the lake for water, and the warbling cries of the sheep.

Nico unclasped his cloak and spread it on the largest boulder. The Duchess inclined her head and settled herself on his cloak, fanning her flushed cheeks. He remained close to her, stance relaxed. Though he took care not to betray any anxiety, they had been followed.

"What knowledge I already have of my sister places her in danger," he said, toying with the dagger thrust into his belt. "I wish to know nothing that could further endanger her. She is my sister. That is enough."

Louise leaned forward, focusing on him with the intensity of a hawk. "Not the name of the man whose child she will bear?"

"No. Though I know my sister. Undoubtedly he will place her in even greater danger, for you Borgia never do anything by half measure."

Louise laughed until he could see the gleam of tears shining in her eyes. "Your words are truer than you know," she said, continuing to study him. "Are you truly skilled with the sword at your side?"

Nico bowed his head.

"You have the gift of silence, Nico. It will serve you well in the years to come." She complimented him, and Nico saw her eyes shift to a spot over his shoulder.

Nico moved to the side as the man who had come up behind them with a heavy cudgel struck, aiming for his head. Overbalanced, the attacker staggered to one knee. The man wore the Duchess's colors and made no move toward her.

"If you seek to measure my skill, lady, you have chosen an unworthy opponent," Nico chided, not bothering to draw his sword. He waited, contempt showing plainly on his face, as the man lumbered to his feet and swore.

He charged like a bull, withdrawing a knife from his belt. Nico stepped forward and caught the knife on the hilt of his dagger . With a twist of his wrist, Nico sent the knife flying, and then whirled around, trapping the larger man's grasping arms in the folds of his cloak. The attacker crashed to the ground, trussed like a pig for slaughter, Nico's blade an inch from his eye.

"Do you wish his blood, my lady?" Nico asked, breath even and unhurried. The man beneath him struggled and Nico leaned in, pressing the blade to a quivering brown eye. Abruptly, all motion ceased.

"Would you end his life so easily?" Louise asked, then nodded. "Of course you would." Her voice sounded shocked. The fight had not lasted three seconds."Please let him up, Nico. He is the leader of my personal guard, and has served me faithfully for many years."

Nico stood and offered a hand. With a grimace, the man took it. When he was on his feet, Nico saw that he was tall and muscular despite being of mature years.

"You are very strong, sir," Nico complimented him, switching to French. "Though you have injured your ankle. It sounds as you walk."

The soldier nodded, testing his ankle gingerly against the dusty earth. "At Viana. Francois de Grouchy." He bowed and looked at Nico with grudging admiration. "How long have you trained?"

"All my life."

The chevalier shrugged. "Would that I could show my son…" He gestured at Nico's cloak and twirled his fingers, "that." He finished, unable to find the words. "He is close to your age, though not your skill."

"Bring your son to me before I depart,"Nico said, "That he may protect my lady effectively in the future."

Louise watched him accept the man's gratitude. Her eyebrows had drawn together, creating a crease between them. She remained silent as Francois hurried down the steep incline, his ankle creaking with each step.

"That was... unexpected." She said softly. She tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking. "You present a quandary, Nico. Your talents make you an invaluable asset, one that would benefit my house. But I think it would be unwise to have you too near me. You set fire to my mind, filling me with dreams of conquest and a world set at my feet." Finally she nodded, her face touched by regret. "When your sister is delivered, I will send you to Philippe de Bourbon. He is a seasoned warrior and commander and will do well by you."

Decision made, the Duchess rose and began to walk back to their horses. He hesitated as they made to depart, thinking of her servants, all those kept close to her. Each was old enough to have served her parents. The Duchess had a great longing for her family, the father she never knew and the mother who had died too young. It was an ache whose cut he knew well.

"My lady, my mother began her life as a servant in the home of Vannozza dei Cattanei, your grandmother. She knew your father from his youth. Perhaps you would speak to her?"

The Duchess took no care to disguise her excitement. "I would, indeed," she murmured,and then began to chuckle. "Your fatal flaw is laid bare to me, young Nico. For all that you are deadly with a blade and your eyes whisper of the bedchamber, you have a loving and gentle heart."

The Duchess rested for the rest of the day, and took her meal in her chamber. Nico rose before the mists of the morning had dissipated and wandered through the yard, selecting the horses that his party would take for the journey to the chateau de la Motte-Feuilly. A messenger had arrived from his mother, informing him that only days lacked before their journey could commence.

"Monsieur de Corella!" Called a voice.

Nico turned to see Francois de Goichy approaching him, a flaxen haired youth trailing in his wake.

"My son, Milun," the commander said.

Nico greeted him, noticing that the boy's face was decorated by a sneer he did not trouble to hide. "We are to practice together?" He spoke slowly, as though the language did not flow easily from his lips.

"Yes."

Nico bit back a smile. Milun was a head taller than himself, several years older, and very certain of his own superiority. "Best of three?" He asked, fingering his purse. "For gold?"

Milun nodded, eagerness flooding his face. A gambler, Nico decided.

The commander led them to a side yard bordered on two sides by the walls of the chateau. He barked out an order, and within moments two swords with blunt edges were brought. Sensing that something was afoot, soldiers began to gather around, and Nico saw the flash of coins changing hands.

Milun stripped off his tunic and shirt, flexing dramatically as he rolled his shoulders and swung the sword back and forth. There was so little skill in his movements that Nico almost laughed.

Francois handed Nico a sword and spoke in halting Italian. "His strength had made him arrogant. I would have him learn now, before it costs him dear."

A feminine laugh sounded from above, and Nico saw that the Duchess's ladies had gathered at the window. And though he could not see her, he sensed that Louise watched as well. Her stare was a weight between his shoulder blades.

The practice sword was a crude weapon, poorly balanced with a guard that scraped his knuckles. He stood, sword held an inch from the dusty ground, as Milun finished placing a bet.

"Are you afraid to take off your shirt?" He jeered, advancing back to where Nico waited. "No muscles?" Milun flexed, displaying his splendid musculature. The women above gasped and tittered.

"He is only a child," one of them said. "Milun will kill him."

"A moment," Nico held up his finger, and returned to where Francois waited. He handed his purse over and murmured. "Place a wager on my behalf."

"How much?"

"All of it." Francois entered the crowd. Nico removed his cloak and tunic, and unlaced his shirt. The jeers of the crowd settled as Nico strode back to the center of the practice area. Though slender, every inch of his body was honed to a razor edge. No trace of fat obscured the long muscles on his torso, and his stomach was corded.

"You are so pretty," Milun said, eyes roving insolently. " Maybe I will teach you another lesson after we are done."

Nico winked and blew a kiss. "I taught your woman the same lesson last night."

The crowd erupted in hoots and rage leeched the color from Milun's face. He grasped the sword in both hands and lifted it overhead, preparing to cleave Nico in two. The move was flashy, suitable only for dispatching a finished opponent, and Nico had to suppress a sigh. This boy was a fool.

Nico stepped forward and landed a viscous blow to the Milun's throat with the hand curled around the pommel of the sword. Milun dropped his weapon and grasped his neck with both hands, trying to draw in a breath. Nico caught the boy's foot with his own, and pushed him to the ground. He laid the blade against Milun's throat.

"One."

Milun jumped to his feet, face contorted with rage. Before he had time to raise his sword completely for an attack, Nico had caught his sword and sent it flying. He advanced, touching his blade to the skin between Milun's eyes.

"Two."

Milun turned purple . His breathe wheezed like an old man and his hands trembled. The youth knelt and picked up the practice sword, its edge now layered in dust. "A moment," he said when he had regained his feet, and turned. While his shoulder obscured the movement, he flexed his wrist and whipped the sword about, aiming for Nico's middle with all the force in his body.

Had the blow landed, Nico's ribs would have shattered. The callous unconcern enraged Nico, who had carefully avoided injuring his opponent, and he lost the careful grip on his temper. He landed a dozen blows with the flat against Milun's head and neck, raising painful red welts that would bruise within hours.

"Three," he said when Milun had dropped his weapon and stood cringing, hands crossed in front of his face, trying to ward off the stinging attack. Nico whipped about, and brought the flat of the sword crashing against Milun's temple, knocking him unconscious.

Stunned silence greeted the defeat. Then, after a charged moment, Nico heard a light, girlish laugh. The Duchess. Milun was dragged away, his face trailing in the dust of the yard.

"Another?" Nico called, picking up the second sword, and drawing a figure with each blade.

No one stepped forward. From above, the Duchess, now framed by the stone casement of the window, called "Damien."

The crowd rustled, and whispers began again. Nico knew immediately that the man who emerged from the crowd was skilled. He moved easily, a restrained, powerful glide, and his dark eyes studied Nico intensely. Nico judged him to be a dozen years his senior, in the prime of his power and skill. No smile curved the lips outlined by a short, dark beard. It was a handsome face, though unremarkable. One that would disappear.

Nico saluted him respectfully and offered a sword.

"I would use my own weapon," Damien said, pulling it from the scabbard at his waist. "To blood?"

The weapon further elevated Nico's estimation of opponent's skill. It's hilt lacked ostentation and the blade formed a gentle curve, lines stunning in their simplicity and deadly purpose. It was a masterpiece of the blade-smith's art, the kind of weapon Nico would have carried.

"To submission."

Nico signaled to Francois, who had emerged from the crowd holding Nico's sword and a now bulging purse. Displaying little concern for his unconscious son, Francois bent forward and whispered in Nico's ear. "He is a master, from the king's own guard."

Nico did not reply. He unsheathed his sword and waited, excitement pounding an beat in his throat. He had never faced another with his level of training. His father had been old, capable only of instructing. The men he had fought against before had done nothing to test his skill.

The attack came without warning, lacking the tells that normally signaled sudden movement. Nico brought his sword up to block, and the force of the blades colliding sent a shiver of noise through the practice area. The blade stopped a hand's breath from his face, and Damien grinned, clearly anticipating a quick victory, only to wince when Nico deflected, nearly knocking his sword to the ground.

Then there was no time to think. Nico's sword moved instinctually, blocking thrusts that were too quick to see. Damien moved with the grace of a dancer, probing for weaknesses and finding none. Their swords moved faster and faster, becoming a blur of silver. His speed was matched against Damien's strength. Time slowed to a crawl. The sound of swords meeting and harsh breathing echoed against the stone walls of the chateau as they traversed the yard.

Nico leaned back from a thrust and it painted a line of fire along his ribs. There was a hiss from the assembled crowd, then all other distractions melted away under the onslaught of quicksilver parries and slashes. There was no fear in Nico, only the exhilaration of finding an opponent capable of testing his skill. They danced, a liquid glide of advance and thrust, their bond more intimate than friendship or fornication.

They halted, Nico's sword an inch from his opponent's throat. Damien's blade touched the flesh beneath Nico's heart. Sweat poured off them in streaming rivulets despite the chill, and the crowd that surrounded them was utterly silent.

Nico began to laugh and pulled his sword back. Damien grinned, his teeth blazing against his dark beard, and dropped his blade. They came together in a bone crushing hug, pounding one another on the back and laughing.

"I had you," Damien said, ruffling Nico's damp red hair.

"At least twice," Nico conceded, then poked Damien in the belly, where half a dozen tiny red splotches decorated his tunic. "But I had you as well."

Damien threw his arm over Nico's shoulder. "By God, I have never had such a fight. Come with me. We will bathe and drink wine and you will tell me about your master."

Gradually Nico became aware that the crowd was still watching with shocked white faces. "Go," the master barked, and they dispersed within seconds. Glancing upwards, Nico saw that Louise alone remained, and she watched Nico with an expression that had little to do with fear, though her lip had been bitten bloody.

"By your leave, lady," he asked, and Louise nodded.

Damien watched the exchange between Nico and the Duchess with raised eyebrows. "That is a fight you will not win."

"I just did."

Damien and Nico dined together, then went to the bath chamber. A huge wooden tub was filled by servants who carried in bucket after bucket of heated water while Nico and Damien drank wine and swapped stories of training and weapons, blades and conflicts. Nico refused outright to tell the king's servant who had trained him, and after several attempts, Damien ceased asking.

When the servants had departed, Nico stripped off the remainder of his clothes. Damien watched him, an inscrutable expression on his handsome face.

"How old are you, truly?" He asked. When Nico did not answer, Damien shook his head and laughed. "15? 14? 13?"

Something in Nico's expression must have given him away, for Damien began to laugh. "Does the Duchess know?"

"No," Nico answered, then got into the tub. The warm water caressed his body, and he could not suppress a groan as he slid in up to his chin. The master's sword had left a hundred stinging wounds in its wake. But, Nico thought, viewing Damien's body as he joined Nico in the tub, his sword had left it's share as well.

"I will keep your secret, Nico, if you will promise me something."

Their newfound camaraderie had not lessened Nico's suspicious nature, and he merely watched Damien without saying a word.

Nico's reticence pleased the king's servant. "By Christ, I would give much to take you into my service! I would have you come to me, should something arise that you can not win with the force of your blade. Come to me, and I will assist you."

"For a price."

Damien raised his eyebrows and leaned out of the tub, retrieving his goblet of wine. "But of course. There is always a price."

They parted amiably, Damien riding from the chateau later that day. Nico spent the afternoon riding, avoiding the fearful, suspicious eyes of the servants, who made gestures against the evil eye when he passed. He would meet his mother the next day in Lyon, and he was impatient for the journey to begin.

Louise came to him that night, as he known that she would. There was the faintest trace of lily fragrance, and then cold white fingers drawing the curtains of his bed aside.

Nico grasped her hand and pulled, rolling until the struggling body was trapped beneath his own. The light of the candle he had left burning on a table illuminated her face, seeming so much younger without the rich finery, and her eyes were bright with passion.

"Have you come to instruct me further?" he asked.

"Yes."

Nico winced as his codpiece made contact with the smooth, hardened leather of the saddle. The Duchess, true to her word, had spent the night instructing him. In the aftermath, he was sore, bloody in places, and more at peace in his thoughts than he had been since his father had died. The love of a woman could do that, he realized. They could be a light in the darkness.

"How did you find the Duchess, my son?" His mother asked. After she had recovered, Andre had arranged for her to travel on a comfortable barge up the River. Her eyes, surveying the road ahead of them, were bright with anticipation. Even a dislike of riding could not spoil her sunny mood.

"She is a woman of many talents and rare intellect," he hedged, hoping the hot sun would explain the blush on his face.

His mother drew her horse up and stared at him. When the soldiers who traveled with them would have halted as well, she waved them on.

"Nico," she scolded. "The duchess?"

"Yes, mother?" He replied, taking care that his expression was full of confused innocence.

"Do not think I am as easily fooled as some, Nico de Corella. there are the marks of teeth upon your neck and your lips are swollen. We he still alive, Cesare Borgia would have…"

Nico interrupted her. "What would Il Valentino have done, Mother, you who knew him so well?"

Elizabetta's mouth closed and after a moment's silence, she urged her horse on. Nico rode silently next to her, occupied by his own thoughts, until a small snort refocused his attention on the slim figure beside him.

"Cesare Borgia would have laughed," Betta said, and Nico knew the matter to be closed.