‘No,’ said Laurent. He said it to his uncle, in a flat, emotionless voice Damen had never heard before, ‘Stop. It’s me you want.’ And Damen said, ‘Laurent,’ a final, terrible understanding resolving, as Laurent said, ‘It’s me you want, not him.’
The Regent’s voice was mild. ‘I don’t want you, Laurent. You are a nuisance. A minor inconvenience that I will clear from my path without much thought.’
‘Laurent,’ said Damen, trying to stop what was happening from his restrained position on his knees.
‘I’ll come with you to Ios,’ said Laurent, in that same detached voice. ‘I’ll let you have your trial. Just let him—’ He didn’t look at Damen. ‘Let him live. Let him walk out of here whole and alive. Take me.’
The soldier holding the sword halted, looking to the Regent for an order. The Regent’s eyes were on Laurent, regarding him with considering attention.
‘Beg,’ said the Regent.
Laurent was held fast in the grip of a soldier, his arm twisted behind his back, the white cotton of his chiton in disarray. The soldier released him, pushing him forward into the silence. Laurent didn’t quite stumble, then began steadily to take one step, then another. Laurent is going to get down on his knees and beg. Like a man walking towards a cliff edge, Laurent came forward to stand before his uncle. Slowly, he went to his knees.
‘Please,’ said Laurent. ‘Please, uncle. I was wrong to defy you. I deserve punishment. Please.’
There was a surreal horror to what was happening. No one was stopping it, this travesty of justice. The Regent’s eyes passed over Laurent like those of a father receiving an act of long-overdue filial duty.
‘Is this exchange acceptable to you, Exalted?’ said the sentry.
‘I believe it is,’ said the Regent, after a moment. ‘You see, Laurent. I am a reasonable man. When you are properly penitent, I am merciful.’
‘Yes, uncle. Thank you, uncle.’
The sentry bowed. ‘The exchange of a life satisfies our laws. Your nephew will face trial in Ios. The other will be held until morning, then released. Let the will of the King be done.’
The other sentries echoed the words, ‘Let the will of the King be done.’
Damen said, ‘No.’ He was struggling again.
Laurent didn’t look at Damen. He kept his eyes fixed on a point in front of him, their blue slightly glazed. Under the thin cotton of his chiton, he was breathing shallowly, his body held taut, an attempt at control.
‘Come, nephew,’ said the Regent.
They went.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THEY KEPT DAMEN until dawn, and then brought him back to the camp, with his hands bound anew. He fought, intermittently, the whole way, through a kind of dark haze of exhaustion that wouldn’t leave him.
When they reached the camp, they threw him down onto the ground so that he went to his knees with his hands bound behind him. Jord came forward with his sword drawn, but Nikandros held him back, eyes wide in fear and respect for the white cloaks of the Kingsmeet. Then Nikandros came forward. Damen was rising to his feet, and he felt Nikandros turning him and slicing the ropes from his arms with his knife.
‘The Prince?’
‘He’s with the Regent.’ He said it once, then for a moment could say nothing at all.
He was a soldier. He knew the brutality of the battlefield, had seen the things that men could do to those weaker than themselves, yet had never thought—
—Nicaise’s head drawn from a blood-stained hessian bag, Aimeric’s cold body sprawled out beside a letter, and—
It was very bright. He was aware of Nikandros speaking to him.
‘I know you felt something for him. If you are going to be sick, do it quickly. We have to go. There will already be men coming to find us.’
Through the haze he heard Jord’s voice. ‘You left him? You saved your own life and left him with his uncle?’
Damen looked up, and saw that everyone had come out from the wagons to see. He was ringed by a small group of faces. Jord had come to stand in front of him. Nikandros stood behind him, and still had a hand on his shoulder, having steadied him to cut off the ropes. He saw Guion a few steps off, and Loyse. Paschal.
Jord said, ‘You coward, you left him to—’