He looked down at the badge in his hand. His time as Laurent’s Captain had been short-lived. An afternoon. An evening. In that time they’d won a battle and taken a fort. It seemed wild and improbable, a hard-edged golden piece of metal in his hand.
Guymar was a good choice, the right interim until Laurent gathered advisors to himself and found a new Captain. That would be the first order of business, to consolidate his power here in Ravenel. As a commander, Laurent was still green, but Laurent would grow into the role. Laurent would find his way, transforming himself from commander-prince to King.
He put the badge down on the table.
He moved away from it to the windows. He looked out. He could see the pinpricks of torchlight on the battlements, where the blue and gold had replaced the banners of Lord Touars.
Touars, who had wavered, but had been convinced into battle by Guion.
In his mind were images that would always be linked with tonight. Stars wheeling high over the battlements. Costumes, and Enguerran’s armour. A helm with its one long red feather. Churned earth and violence and Touars, who had fought, until a single moment of recognition that had changed everything.
Damianos. Prince killer.
Behind him, the doors closed; he turned, and saw Laurent.
His stomach dropped, a moment of confused shock—he’d never expected to see Laurent here. Then everything resolved, the size and the opulence of these chambers made sense: Laurent was not the interloper.
They faced each other. Laurent stood, four steps inside the room, vivid in the severe clothing, tight-laced, with only a single shoulder ornament to signify his rank. Damen felt his pulse beat with his surprise, his awareness of Laurent’s presence.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Your servants brought me to the wrong rooms.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ said Laurent.
There was a slight pause.
‘Aimeric is back in his rooms under guard,’ said Damen. He tried for a normal tone. ‘He’s not going to cause any more trouble.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Aimeric,’ said Laurent. ‘Or my uncle.’
Laurent began to come forward. Damen was aware of him as he was aware of the badge he had removed, like a piece of armour discarded too early.
Laurent said, ‘I know you’re planning to leave tomorrow. You’re going to cross the border, and you’re not going to come back. Say it.’
‘I—’
‘Say it.’
‘I’m going to leave tomorrow,’ said Damen, as steadily as he could. ‘I’m not going to come back.’ He drew in a breath that hurt his chest. ‘Laurent—’
‘No, I don’t care. Tomorrow you leave. But you’re mine now. You’re still my slave tonight.’
Damen felt the words hit, but that was subsumed in the shock of Laurent’s hand on him, a push backwards. His legs hit the bed. The world tilted, bed silks and roseate light. He felt Laurent’s knee alongside his thigh, Laurent’s hand on his chest.
‘I—don’t—’
‘I think you do,’ said Laurent.
His jacket began to divide under Laurent’s fingers: Laurent was unerring, and a distant part of Damen’s mind registered that: a prince with a servant’s proficiency, better than Damen had been, as though taught.
‘What are you doing?’ Damen’s breath was shaky.
‘What am I doing? You are not very observant.’
‘You’re not yourself,’ said Damen. ‘And even if you were, you don’t do anything without a dozen motives.’
Laurent went very still, the soft words half bitter. ‘Don’t I? I must want something.’
‘Laurent,’ he said.