Yes. He had warned Adrastus. Kastor would have wanted the evidence of what he had done blotted out. Adrastus, the guards, probably even the yellow-haired slave who had tended him in the baths. Everyone who knew the truth, systematically, would have been killed.
Almost everyone. Damen took a steadying breath. He knew with every locked-down particle in his body that he shouldn’t let himself ask, and yet he couldn’t help it.
‘And Jokaste?’ Damen said.
He said her name as he would have said it to her, without a title. Torveld gazed at him speculatively.
‘Kastor’s mistress? She was in good health. The pregnancy is proceeding without incident . . . You didn’t know? She carries Kastor’s child. Whether there will be a wedding or not is still in question, but certainly it’s in Kastor’s interests to secure the succession. He gives every indication that he will raise the child as—’
‘His heir,’ said Damen.
It would have been her price. He remembered every perfect coil of her hair, like winding silk. Close those doors.
He looked up. And suddenly he was aware, from the way Torveld was looking back at him, that he had lingered on this topic too long.
‘You know,’ said Torveld, slowly, ‘you resemble Kastor a little. It’s something in the eyes. In the shape of the face. The more I look at you—’
No.
‘—the more I see it. Has anyone ever—’
No.
‘—remarked on it before? I’m sure Laurent would—’
‘No,’ said Damen. ‘I—’
It came out sounding too loud and too urgent. His heartbeat was loud in his chest, as he was dragged from thoughts of home back to this—deception. He knew that the only thing standing between himself and discovery at this moment was the sheer audacity of what Kastor had done. A right-minded man like Torveld would never guess at this kind of brazen, inventive treachery.
‘Forgive me. I meant to say that—I hope you won’t tell the Prince you think I look like Kastor. He wouldn’t be
pleased by the comparison at all.’ It wasn’t a lie. Laurent’s mind would have no trouble jumping from clue to answer. Laurent was too close to guessing the truth already. ‘He has no love for the Akielon royal family.’
He should say something about being flattered to hear there was a likeness, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get his mouth around the words.
For the moment at least, it distracted Torveld.
‘Laurent’s feelings about Akielos are too well known,’ Torveld said, with a troubled look. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him about it. I’m not surprised he wanted those slaves gone from the palace—if I were Laurent, I’d be suspicious of any gift from Akielos. With conflict brewing among the kyroi, the last thing Kastor can afford is a hostile neighbour on his northern border. The Regent is open to friendship with Akielos, but Laurent . . . it would be in Kastor’s interests to keep Laurent off the throne.’
Trying to imagine Kastor plotting against Laurent was like trying to imagine a wolf plotting against a serpent.
‘I think the Prince can hold his own,’ said Damen, dryly.
‘Yes. You could be right. He has a rare mind.’ Torveld rose as he spoke, indicating that the interview was done. In the same moment, Damen became aware that there were signs of stirring from the bed. ‘I’m looking forward to a renewed relationship with Vere, after his ascension.’
Because he’s bewitched you, Damen thought. Because you’re moonstruck and you have no idea of his nature.
‘You can tell him I said that if you like. Oh, and tell him I’m looking forward to beating him to the mark today,’ said Torveld with a grin, as Damen made his way out.
Damen, thankfully for his sense of self-preservation, had no chance to tell Laurent anything of the kind, but instead was thrust into a change of clothing. He was to be taken out to accompany the Prince. He didn’t have to ask, ‘Accompany him where?’ It was Torveld’s last day, and Torveld was well known for his enjoyment of the hunt.
The real sport was in Chastillon, but it was too far to go in a day, and there were some reasonable runs in the lightly wooded lands around Arles. So—only slightly the worse for wine the night before—half the court picked itself up around mid-morning and moved outside.
Damen was transported, ridiculously, on a litter, as was Erasmus and a few of the wispier pets. Their role was not to participate, but to attend their masters after the sport was done. Damen and Erasmus both were bound for the royal tent. Until the Patran delegation departed, Damen was unable to attempt escape. He couldn’t even use the outing as a chance to see the city of Arles and its environs. The litter was covered. He did have a very good view of a series of figures copulating, which was the scene embroidered on the inside of the silk cover.
The nobility were hunting boar, which the Veretians called sanglier, a northern breed that was larger, with longer tusks on the male. A stream of servants, up before dawn—or perhaps even working through the night—had brought all of the opulence of the palace outside, erecting tented pavilions, richly coloured and covered in pennants and flags. There were a great deal of refreshments served by attractive pages. The horses were beribboned and their saddles encrusted with precious stones. This was hunting with every leather exquisitely polished, every pillow plumped, and every need met. But despite all the luxury, it was still a dangerous sport. A boar was more intelligent than a deer or even a hare, who would run until they escaped or were overcome. A boar, fearsome, furious and aggressive, would occasionally turn and fight.
They arrived, rested, lunched. The party mounted. The beaters fanned out. To Damen’s surprise, there were one or two pets among the riders milling about; he saw Talik on a horse alongside Vannes, and riding very neatly indeed on a pretty strawberry roan, was Ancel, accompanying his master Berenger.