Kings Rising (Captive Prince 3)

The hall cleared. He was alone with Laurent. The sand tray was between them, the march on Karthas laid out in granular detail. The acidulous blue of Laurent’s gaze on him had nothing to do with the meeting.

‘Nothing happened,’ said Damen.

‘Something happened,’ said Laurent.

‘You were drunk,’ said Damen. ‘I took you back to your rooms. You asked me to attend you.’

‘What else?’ said Laurent.

‘I did attend you,’ said Damen.

‘What else?’ said Laurent.

He had thought having the upper hand over a hungover Laurent would be a rather enjoyable experience, except that Laurent was beginning to look like he was going to vomit. And not from the hangover.

‘Oh, stand down. You were too drunk to know your own name, let alone who you were with or what you were doing. Do you really think I’d take advantage of you in that condition?’

Laurent was staring at him. ‘No,’ he said awkwardly, as if, only now giving the question his full attention, he was coming to realise the answer. ‘I don’t think you would.’

His face was still white, his body in tension. Damen waited.

‘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.’

* * *

He found himself in the old residential quarters of the fort.

It was quieter here. The sounds of the Akielon occupation were muted. The thick stone hushed all the noises, and there was only the building itself, the bones of Marlas, its tapestries and trellises torn down, exposed before him.

It was a beautiful fort. He saw that, the ghost of its Veretian grace; of what it had been; of what it could be again, perhaps. For his part, this was farewell. He wouldn’t return here, or if he did, as a visiting King, it would be different, restored as it should be to Veretian hands. Marlas, so hard-won, he would simply give back.

That was strange to think. Once a symbol of Akielon victory, it seemed now a symbol of all that had changed in him, the way that when he looked now, he saw with new eyes.

He came to an old door, and stopped. There was a soldier at the door, a formality. Damen waved him aside.

It was a comfortable, well-lit set of rooms with a fire burning in the hearth, and a series of furnishings including Akielon reclining seats, a wooden chest with cushions, and a low table in front of the fire, with a game and game pieces set up on it.

The girl from the village sat, squat and pale, opposite an older lady in grey skirts, bright coins used in a child’s game strewn out on the table between them. At Damen’s entry the girl scrambled up, the coins knocked to the floor with a chink.