Damen was three steps out of the tower room when Guymar greeted him with a hail and the clear intention of making for the room himself.
‘Aimeric is back under guard and the men have settled. I can report to the Prince and—’
He found he had put himself bodily in Guymar’s way. ‘No. No one goes in.’
Anger, irrationally, blossomed. Behind him was the closed door to the tower rooms, a barrier to disaster. Guymar should know better than to barge in and make Laurent’s mood worse. Guymar should have known better than to cause Laurent’s mood in the first place.
‘Are there orders for what should be done with the prisoner?’
Throw Aimeric off the battlements. ‘Keep him confined in his rooms.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘I want this whole section kept clear. And Guymar?’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘This time, I want it actually kept clear. I don’t care who is about to get molested. No one is to come here. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Captain.’ Guymar bowed and retreated.
Damen found himself with his hands braced on the stone crenellation, in unconscious echoing of Laurent’s pose, the line of Laurent’s back the last thing he had seen before he had put the heel of his palm to the door.
His heart was pounding. He wanted to make a barrier that protected Laurent from anyone who would intrude on him. He’d keep that perimeter clear, if it meant stalking these battlements and patrolling it himself.
He knew this about Laurent. That once he gave himself time alone to think, the control returned, reason won out.
The part of him that didn’t want to drop Aimeric with a punch recognised that both Jord and Aimeric had just been put through the wringer. It was a mess that needn’t have happened. If they’d just—steered clear. Friends, Laurent had said, high on the battlements. Is that what we are? Damen’s hands drew into fists. Aimeric was an inveterate troublemaker with terrible timing.
He found himself at the base o
f the stairs, giving the same order to the soldiers there that he had given to Guymar, emptying out the section.
It was long past midnight. A feeling of fatigue, of heaviness came over him, and Damen was suddenly aware of how few hours there were before morning. The soldiers were clearing out, the space emptying around him. The idea of stopping, allowing himself a moment to think, was terrible. Outside, there was nothing, just the last hours of darkness, and the long ride in the dawn.
He caught one of the soldiers by the arm before he realised it, holding him back from following the others.
The man stopped, held in place.
‘Captain?’
‘Watch over the Prince,’ he heard himself say. ‘Anything he needs, make certain he has it. Take care of him.’ He was aware of the incongruity of the words, of his hard grip on the soldier’s arm. When he tried to stop, his grip only tightened. ‘He deserves your loyalty.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
A nod, followed by acquiescence. He watched the man go upstairs in his place.
* * *
It took a long time to finish his preparations, after which he found a servant to show him to his rooms. He had to pick his way across the ends of the revelry: discarded wine cups, a snoring Rochert, a few overturned chairs, thanks to a fight or some overly vigorous dancing.
His rooms were excessive because Veretians were always excessive: through doorway arches, he could see at least two other rooms, with tiled floors and low, lounging couches typical of Vere. He let his eyes pass over the vaulted windows, the table well supplied with wine and fruits, and the bed, overhung with rose-coloured silks that fell in folds so long they pooled out over the floor.
He dismissed the servant. The doors closed. He poured himself a cup of wine from a silver jug and drained it off. He placed the cup back on the table. He rested his hands on the table and his weight on his hands.
Then he lifted his hand to his shoulder, and unpinned his Captain’s badge.
The windows were open. It was the kind of sweet, warm night that came often in the south. Veretian decoration was everywhere, from the intricate grilles covering the windows to the helicoidal braiding that looped the bed silks, but these border forts had some hints of the south, in the shapes of the arches, and the flow of space, open and without screens.