Prince captif, tome 3 : Le roi

'I met the Prince in Vere. I thought as you did. I didn't know his heart.'

It was Laurent who said, 'No.'

'I came to learn it slowly.'

'Damen, don't do this.'

'I came to learn his honesty, his integrity, his strength of mind.'

'Damen-'

Of course Laurent wanted everything done his own way. But today it was going to be different.

'I was a fool, blinded by prejudice. I didn't understand that he was fighting alone, that he had been fighting alone for a very long time. And then I saw the men he commanded, disciplined and loyal. I saw the way his household loved him, because he knew their concerns, cared for their lives. I saw him protect slaves. And when I left him, drugged and without friends after an attack on his life, I saw him stand up in front of his uncle and argue to save my life because he felt he owed me a debt. He knew that it might cost him his life. He knew he'd be sent to the border, to ride into the very same plot to kill him. And he still argued for me. He did it because it was owed, because in the very private code with which he ran his life, it was right.'

He looked at Laurent, and he understood now what he had not understood then: that Laurent had known who he was that night. Laurent had known who he was and had still protected him, out of a sense of fairness that had somehow survived what had happened to him.

'That is the man you face. He has more honour and integrity than any man I have ever met. He is dedicated to his people and his country. And I am proud to have been his lover.'

Damen said it with his eyes on Laurent, willing him to know how much he meant it, and for a moment Laurent just gazed back at him, his eyes blue and wide.

At first no one paid any attention to him. He was just one man in the busy columned square. But by the time he reached the first of the guards he had garnered a few looks. It was rare to approach the steps to the high gate directly.

He could feel the growing attention, could feel eyes turning to look at him, could feel the guards' awareness of him, though they held their impassive positions. He put his sandalled foot on the first step.

Crossed spears blocked his way, and the men and women of the square began to turn, to create a semicircle of curiosity, nudging each other.

'Halt', said the guard. 'State your business, traveller.'

He waited, until he had the eyes of everyone near the gate on him, then he let the hood of his cloak fall back. He heard the shocked murmurs, the outbreak of sound as he spoke, his words, clear and unmistakable.

'I am Damianos of Akielos, and I surrender to my brother.'

He said, 'I think it's Kastor's child.'

Jokaste didn't answer him, and there was a silence in which her gaze was on him. Laurent regarded her in turn. Around them, the camp stayed quiet, no sounds except for the breeze and the night.

'I think you saw it clearly, in those twilight days in Akielos. The end was coming, and Damianos wouldn't listen to anyone. The only way to save his life was to persuade Kastor to send him as a slave to Vere. To do that you had to be in Kastor's bed.'

Her expression didn't alter, but he felt the change in her, the new, careful way she was holding herself. In the cool night air, it transmitted something to him, against her will. It gave something away. And she was angry about it, and for the first time she was afraid.

He said. 'I think it's Kastor's child, because I don't think you would use Damen's child against him.'

'Charls met the Prince of Vere once,' Guilliame said to Damen, lowering his voice to the conspiratorial, 'in a tavern in Nesson, disguised as a,' lowering it further, 'prostitute.'

Damen looked over at Laurent, who was deep in conversation, letting his eyes pass slowly over every familiar feature, the cool expression tipped with gold in the firelight. He said, 'Did he?'

'Charls said, think of the most expensive pet you've ever seen, then double it.'

'Really?' said Damen.

'Of course, Charls knew who he was right away, because he couldn't hide his princely style, and nobility of spirit.'

'Of course,' said Damen.

'Nikandros-'

'No. Listen to me Damianos. We're riding into Akielos because the Prince of Vere has chosen to take his fight into your country. It's Akielos that will be hurt in this conflict. And when the battles are done, and Akielos is exhausted by the fight, someone will step in to take the reins of the country. Make sure it's you. The Prince of Vere is too good at commanding people, too good at manipulating those around him in order to get his way.'

'I see. You're warning me again not to bed him?'

'No,' said Nikandros. 'I know you're going to bed him. I'm saying that when he lets you, think about what he wants.'

'Did I,' Laurent said. It took him a long time to push the words out. 'Say anything.' Laurent held himself taut, as if for flight. He lifted his eyes to meet Damen's.

'You said you missed me.' said Damen.

Laurent flushed, hard, the change in colour startling.

'I see. Thank you for-' He could see Laurent taste the edges of the statement. '-resisting my advances.'

In the silence, he could hear voices beyond the door that had nothing to do with the two of them, or the honesty of the moment that almost hurt, as if they stood again in Laurent's chambers by the bed.

'I miss you too,' he said. 'I'm jealous of Isander.'

'Isander's a slave.'

'I was a slave.'

The moment ached. Laurent met his gaze, his eyes too clear.

'You were never a slave. Damianos. You were born to rule, as I was.'

'What-'

A rough, painful grip closed on his upper arm. Startled, he let it happen, never thinking for a moment of Nikandros as a threat. He allowed himself to be pushed backwards, allowed Nikandros to take hold of a fistful of fabric at his shoulder, and yank it, hard.

'Nikandros-'

He was staring at Nikandros in confusion, with his clothing hanging from his waist, and Nikandros was staring back at him.

Nikandros said, 'Your back.'

Damen flushed. Nikandros was staring at him as if he had needed to see it up close to believe it. The exposure was a shock. He knew... He knew there was scarring. He knew it extended across his shoulders, down to his mid-back. He knew the scars had been well taken care of. They didn't pull. They didn't twinge, even during the most strenuous sword work. The smelly salves that Paschal had administered had seen to that. But he had never taken himself to a mirror and looked at them.

Now his mirror was Nikandros's eyes, the stark horror in his expression. Nikandros turned him, put his hands on Damen's body, spreading them over Damen's back, as if touch would confirm what his eyes wouldn't believe.

'Who did this to you?'

'If it please my lords and ladies.' said Pallas, 'I claim the honour of combat with the King.'

There was a swell of approbation from the crowd. Pallas was a rising star, and everyone wanted to see the King fight. Connoisseurs of combat, many of those here lived for these types of matches, when the best of the best took on the kingdom's established champion.

Damen rose from the throne, and put his hand to the gold brooch at his shoulder. His garment dropped and the crowd roared its approval. The attendants took up his garment from where it fell, as he descended the dais and came out onto the field.

On the grass, he reached his cupped hands into the receptacle held by the steward, and scooped out the oil, smearing it over his naked body. He nodded to Pallas, who he could see was excited, nervous, euphoric; and he put his hand on Pallas's shoulder, felt Pallas's hand on his own.

He enjoyed it. Pallas was a worthy opponent, and it was a pleasure to feel the strain and heave of a highly trained body against his own. The bout lasted almost two minutes, before Damen locked his arm around Pallas's neck and held him down, absorbing every surge, every struggle, until Pallas was stiff with strain, then shaking with it, then spent, and the match was won.

'If you're this angry,' said Laurent, 'you should fight a real opponent.'

'There's no one-' Damen stopped, but the unspoken words hung, dangerous with the truth. There was no one good enough to fight him. Not in this mood. In this mood, angry and unable to hold back, he would kill them.

'There's me,' said Laurent.

'Do I have the question clear?' said Laurent, speaking in Akielon. 'You are asking if I lay with the man who killed my own brother?'

Laurent wore the slave cuff with utter disregard. He had no owner, the aristocratic arrogance of his posture said that. Laurent had always possessed an essential quality of the untouchable. He cultivated a faultless grace on the reclining couch, his chiselled profile and marble-chip eyes those of a statue. The idea that he would let anyone fuck him was impossible.

Barieus said, 'A man would have to be ice-cold to sleep with his brother's killer.'

'Then you have your answer,' said Laurent.