He said it as it opened up inside him, ‘They are our reinforcements.’
The truth was marching towards him. His past was coming to Ravenel, a steady, unstoppable approach. Damen and Damianos. And Jord was right. There had only ever been one of him.
He said, ‘Open the gates.’
* * *
The Akielon march into the fort was the flow of a single red stream, except that whereas water swirled and swelled, it was straight and unyielding.
Their arms and legs were crudely bare, as if war was an act of flesh impacting on flesh. Their weapons were unadorned, as if they had brought only the essentials required for killing. Rows and rows of them, laid out with mathematical precision. The discipline of feet marching in unison was a display of power, and violence, and strength.
Damen stood on the dais and watched the full sweep of it. Had they always been like this? So stripped of everything but the utilitarian? So hungry for war?
The men and women of Ravenel were crammed in at the edges of the courtyard, and Damen’s men were deployed to keep them back. The crowd pressed and swelled at them. Word of the Akielon entry had spread. The crowd was murmuring, the soldiers were displeased with their duty. The Regent had been right, people were saying: Laurent had been in league with Akielos all along. It was a strange kind of madness to realise that this, in fact, was true.
Damen saw the faces of the Veretian men and women, saw arrows trained down from the battlements, and in one of the corners of the vast courtyard, a woman held her son where he clutched at her leg, her hand encircling his head.
He knew what was in their eyes, visible now beneath the hostility. It was terror.
He could feel the tension of the Akielon forces too, knew they were expecting treachery. The first sword drawn, the first arrow loosed, would unleash a killing force.
A strident horn blast hit the ears, too loud in the courtyard. Echoing from every stone surface, it was the signal to cease march. The halt was sudden. It left a silen
ce in the space where the sounds of metal had been, the tramp of feet. The horn blast was fading, until you could almost hear the sound of a bowstring being drawn tight.
‘This is wrong,’ said Guymar, his hand tight on his sword hilt. ‘We should—’
Damen held out his hand in a repressive gesture.
Because an Akielon man was dismounting from his horse, beneath the main standard, and Damen’s heart was pounding. He felt himself move forward, he was coming down the shallow steps of the dais, leaving Guymar and the others behind him.
He felt every pair of eyes in the silent courtyard watching him as he made his descent, step after step. It wasn’t the way things were done. Veretians stood atop their daises and made guests come to them. None of that mattered to him. He kept his own eyes on the man, who was watching him approach in turn.
Damen was wearing Veretian clothes. He felt them on himself, the high collar, the fabric tight-laced to follow the lines of his body, the long sleeves, the shine of his long boots. Even his hair had been cut in Veretian style.
He saw the man see all of that first, and then he saw the man see him.
‘The last time we spoke, the apricots were in season,’ said Damen, in Akielon. ‘We walked in the night garden, and you took my arm and gave me counsel, and I did not listen.’
And Nikandros of Delpha stared back at him, and in a shocked voice, speaking the words half to himself, said, ‘It’s not possible.’
‘Old friend, you have come to a place where nothing is as any of us thought.’
Nikandros didn’t speak again. He just stared in silence, white as one who had been struck a blow. Then, as though one leg gave out, and then the other, he dropped slowly to his knees, an Akielon commander kneeling on the rough trampled stones of a Veretian fort.
He said, ‘Damianos.’
Before Damen could tell him to rise, he heard it again, echoed in another voice, and then another. It was passing over the gathered men in the courtyard, his name in tones of shock and of awe. The steward beside Nikandros was kneeling. And then four of the men in the front ranks. And then more, dozens of men, rank after rank of soldiers.
And as Damen looked out, the army was dropping to its knees, until the courtyard was a sea of bowed heads, and silence replaced the murmur of voices, the words spoken over and over again.
‘He lives. The King’s son lives. Damianos.’