The fire was burning steadily now. The orange flames had begun hollowing out the base of the wide centre log.
‘I know your feelings towards Akielos,’ said Damen. ‘What happened at Breteau . . . it was barbaric. I know it must mean very little to you to hear me say that I’m sorry for it. And I don’t understand you, but I know that war will bring worse, and you are the only person I have seen working to stop it. I couldn’t let him hurt you.’
‘In my culture, it is customary to reward for good service,’ said Laurent, after a long pause. ‘Is there something you want?’
‘You know what I want,’ said Damen.
‘I am not going to release you,’ said Laurent. ‘Ask for something short of that.’
‘Take off one of the wrist-cuffs?’ said Damen, who was learning—he realised somewhat to his surprise—what Laurent liked.
‘I give you too much leeway,’ said Laurent.
‘I think you give no more or less than you want to give, with anyone,’ said Damen, because Laurent’s voice had not been at all displeased. Then Damen looked down and away.
‘There is something I want.’
‘Go on.’
‘Don’t try to use me against my own people,’ said Damen. ‘If it comes to—I can’t do this again.’
‘I would never have asked that of you,’ said Laurent. Then, when Damen looked at him with flat disbelief: ‘Not out of sweetness. There is little sense in pitting a lesser sense of duty against a greater one. No leader could expect loyalty to hold under those circumstances.’
Damen said nothing to that, but looked back at the fire.
‘I’ve never seen a throw like that,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Every time I see you fight, I wonder how it is Kastor got you in chains and onto a ship to my country.’
‘It was . . .’ He stopped. It was more men than I could handle, he almost said. But the truth was simpler, and tonight he was honest with himself. He said, ‘I didn’t see it coming.’
He had never, in those days, sought to put himself inside the mind of Kastor, of the men around him, their ambitions, their motivations; those who were not openly his enemies, he’d believed, were basically like himself.
He looked at Laurent, at the controlled pose, the cool, difficult blue eyes.
‘I’m sure you would have sidestepped it,’ said Damen. ‘I remember the night your uncle’s men attacked you. The first time he tried to kill you. You weren’t even surprised.’
There was a silence. Damen felt from Laurent a careful immanence, as though he was deciding whether or not to speak. Around them night was falling, but the fire kept the light warm.
‘I was surprised,’ said Laurent, ‘the first time.’
‘The first time?’ said Damen.
Another silence.
‘He poisoned my horse,’ said Laurent. ‘You saw her, the morning of the hunt. She was already feeling it, even before we rode out.’
He remembered the hunt. He remembered the horse, fractious and covered in sweat.
‘That . . . was your uncle’s doing?’
The silence stretched out.
‘It was my doing,’ Laurent said. ‘I forced his hand when I had Torveld take the slaves to Patras. I knew when I did it . . . it was ten months to my ascension. Time was running out for him to make a definitive move against me. I knew that. I provoked him. I wanted to see what he would do. I just—’
Laurent broke off. His mouth twisted in a small smile that had no humour in it at all.
‘I didn’t think he’d really try to kill me,’ he said. ‘After everything . . . even after everything. So you see I can be surprise
d.’