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Damianos of Akielos’s life changed at Marlas, with an arrow.

He faced the Veretian Crown Prince, Auguste, in a slow and inexorable duel toward some kind of resolution. While he had felt a degree of nervousness when announcing his intention to fight Auguste to his father and the kyroi, now all that remained was determination and the certainty that whoever faltered first would fall.

Parry, thrust, push forward.

An opening: Auguste making a single mistake after hours upon hours of breaking Akielon lines.

As Damen prepared to take advantage, a small body - nothing more than an impression of a navy blue tunic and a shock of blond hair - streaked into the middle of the duel, screaming, “Stop!” in Veretian and then in Akielon for good measure.

Damen, dazed, almost dropped his sword.

Auguste, for his part, slowly lowered his own weapon and, after a quick glance at Damen, crouched down to face the newcomer. “Laurent? What is it?”

“Father is dead,” the boy replied, starkly.

Damen absorbed the news – King Aleron, dead – at the same time as some part of his brain registered that this blond whippet was the younger prince, Auguste’s brother, who couldn’t be older than thirteen or fourteen and looked incongruous on the battlefield.

“What? How?” Auguste exclaimed, hand clenching around his sword, throwing a heated glance at Damen.

Laurent placed a smaller hand over his brother’s, staying any further action.

“No, Auguste. It wasn’t Akielos,” he said quietly but clearly enough for Damen to listen - the battle around them had slowly quieted when both sides realized their princes were no longer fighting. “The arrow – the arrow came from our side,” Laurent continued.

“No”, whispered Auguste, voice breaking, the single moment of weakness Damen had seen from him in the entire campaign. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I saw it myself. I – I figured it meant…”

“… treason,” Auguste completed the thought, a weary hand passing over his face.

Damen saw Laurent swallow back emotion and nod, found himself torn between admiration over his apparent control and a strange grief, un-looked for, that this boy – features fine enough to belong to a son of the goddess of love – was losing the last vestiges of childhood and innocence to an action so repellent Damen could hardly conceive of it. To kill one’s King on a battlefield, to shoot him like a common criminal, to betray him…

“Yes,” Laurent confirmed. “Auguste, you must parley with Akielos. You must stop the battle and treat for peace,” he continued, almost tugging on his brother’s hand. “You stop the fighting, and I promise you that I’ll find the one behind our father’s death. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Auguste smiled, a warm gleam of sunshine amidst the bloody battlefield. “Yes. You’re good at figuring out puzzles, little brother. But who will keep you safe while you unravel this one?”

And almost before he knew it his mouth was moving, unplanned, Damen spoke. “Me.”

It was insanity, it was an offer his own father might strike him across the face for, and yet Damen couldn’t regret it. Something inside him couldn’t help but try to help a man as fine as Auguste – who had fought honorably and well despite whatever ill-faith the Veretian envoys had shown in the negotiations – and Laurent, all angles, pale face and yellow hair, a fragile branch in the face of an approaching storm.

The twin regard of the Veretian golden princes would’ve made a lesser man falter, but Damen met their skeptical gazes evenly.

“You? Who were a parry away from striking down my brother?” Laurent asked, eyebrows arched.

“Laurent…”

“Yes. Akielos will accept parley, and I promise you that I will help you, however I can,” Damen confirmed, extending a hand.

Auguste rose from his crouch and, one hand still on his brother’s shoulder, shook Damen’s hand with the other. “Brother of Akielos, I accept and I thank you, with all my heart,” he said, in correct- if accented - Akielon.

They smiled at each other, and Damen couldn’t help but feel that this moment, this leap of faith, could change all their futures for the better.

A huff of breath, and “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, but it needs to be properly formalized,” said Laurent, exasperated.

“And how do you propose we formalize this, then, brother councilor?” Auguste asked, and even if the words denoted some amusement, Damen could see the question was in earnest.

“Sign a treaty here, in the middle of the field – attendants can bring a table and chairs, adequate refreshments and perhaps one of the simpler Veretian tents,” Laurent replied without pause. “Agree to joint administration of Delfeur under one of the stronger but less bellicose Akielon generals – one who might be chafing under a kyroi and ready for independent command, yet faultlessly loyal to the capital – and one of our more reliable nobles, Herode, perhaps. Finally, ensure that trade and taxation benefit both our countries equally and that the Patrans don’t take any undue advantage – but that can be hammered out in detail later, of course.”

“Of course,” said Damen, faintly. Puzzle solver indeed.

After a moment, Auguste nodded. “I think it an elegant solution. Thank you, Laurent. Though I notice it still doesn’t account for how to protect you while you scurry behind our entire court and wheedle out the traitor.”

“I don’t scurry,” Laurent protested, showing his age in a tiny moment amidst the demonstration of his uncommon agility of mind.

“Fostering,” Damen said, the answer coming to him with the same strange ease that the offer to help the Veretian princes had. “I shall agree to stay at the court of Vere for a year, to foster our new brotherly bonds – nobody will question my being near Laurent, my host, since the new King will be so busy. Later, Prince Laurent can come to Akielos for a year, when he is, say, eighteen.”

Auguste looked at Laurent and waited for the brief nod which made the sum total of his agreement, as his pale blue eyes examined Damen with more rigor than his sword tutor Leonidas had ever shown.

“Excellent. Well, then – I suppose we better call for that tent,” Auguste said, smiling at Damen over Laurent’s head.

Damen smiled back, almost helplessly – such was the power of Auguste of Vere, and his younger brother.

After the surreal moment in the field – the arrow, Laurent, the parley – the formal negotiation and signing of the treaty seemed almost mundane.

Damen wasn’t sure if his father was entirely pleased, and Kastor was loud in expressing his desire to press on, but Theomedes and the kyroi were ultimately favorably impressed by Auguste who was so forthright and honorable and, evidently, so great a soldier. Further, as Laurent had anticipated, the idea of receiving bounty from Delfeur without further bloodshed appealed to them. Heston of Thoas was particularly glad to have received the honor of co-administering Delfeur - or Delphas, as Damen and his countrymen called it - and he had approached Herode of Vere with warmth, both of them navigating their conversation between Veretian and Akielon without too much trouble.

“And, if the treaty should fail, you’ll have a year’s worth of invaluable knowledge on how best to defeat them,” said Theomedes in an aside to Damen, pragmatic to the last.

Throughout the negotiations, Laurent was a quiet shadow beside his brother, eyes flying over the documents passed around and moving from face to face, taking everything in and giving nothing away. Damen expected him to chime in or make his fierce intelligence known, but Laurent held his peace at the table and sought the notice of no-one, not even the Veretian nobles or his uncle.

Treason, Auguste’s shocked realization reminded him.

Of course. The little puzzle solver would not let anyone suspect the sharpness of his mind.

“How many men will you bring to Arles?” Laurent asked him, once the treaty was signed and both parties feasted, albeit with some tension still in the air.

“Men?” Damen asked, caught off guard.

“Well, yes. We have signed a treaty, but surely it would be foolish for the crown prince of Akielos to reside in Vere for a year utterly alone,” Laurent replied looking at Damen as if he was rather afraid he’d been saddled with a half-wit for a protector.

“He’ll be taking two guards, an attendant, a physician and a cook,” Nikandros replied, coming up behind Damen and placing a hand on his shoulder. “All male, of course.”

Only to Nikandros had Damn told the entire story of the parley in the field, the truth of his own offer; to which Nikandros had rolled his eyes, exasperated, and muttered about “fool-hardy honor.”

Laurent looked at Nikandros for a second, calculating. Then he nodded as if satisfied. “Good. Well, at least one of you Akielons isn’t entirely hopeless.”

With that, he turned to sit next to his brother.

Damen looked at Nikandros, bereft of words.

“You’ve signed up for a difficult year, my friend,” Nikandros said, chuckling. He looked at the Veretian princes for a moment. “Tell the little shadow to start by determining who would’ve gained the most, with the King’s death and Auguste’s defeat. It will be a hard answer to face, I think, but the correct one.”

Damen took leave of his father and his countrymen stoically, as befitted a true Akielon prince, and only paused to ask Nikandros to keep an eye on his father and assist him in what he could.

“Of course, dear friend, you need not even ask.” A pause, and in a tone Damen couldn’t exactly read, “I’ll keep an eye on Kastor, too, keep him out of trouble.”

All too soon after that, the Veretian contingent - plus their five Akielon additions - made toward the north, and Damen found himself riding next to Laurent while, ahead, Auguste rode next to his uncle and a few of his nobles, surrounded by the Prince’s - now the King’s - guard.

“Will you teach me how to fight? The sword, I mean. I need to learn to defend Au- to fight properly.”

Damen was startled by the quiet question, posed in halting Akielon, then clarified in Veretian. He felt something strange squeeze inside his chest at Laurent’s near mistake, the fierce protectiveness that hid behind the fragile, quiet exterior.

“Do you not learn how to fight from your sword-masters, in the palace?”

“The basics, yes,” Laurent replied, that hint of exasperation back in his tone. “But everyone knows I prefer to read and write, and it would seem very strange indeed if I suddenly decided to train in earnest… whoever it is that orchestrated my father’s - the King’s - what happened at Marlas, they will be watching for just such an indication that Auguste and I know more than we should.”

Damen could not fault Laurent’s logic, but he could foresee some practical obstacles.

“But how would my teaching you keep the secret? We’d be seen in the training grounds regardless.”

“Auguste has a private training area in his quarters. We’ll simply have to demand that they furnish you with something similar, and train early in the morning,” Laurent replied, waving away the difficulties with an imperious hand.

“And you would trust me, to teach you well?” Damen couldn’t help but ask. Laurent hadn’t exactly accepted Auguste’s and his agreement to protect him eagerly.

Laurent gave him a deliberate look. “I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t.”

With that, he spurred his horse to go a little faster, an enviable figure when riding despite his age.

“A difficult year, indeed,” Damen whispered.

Arles was as intricate and ornate a palace as it was rumored to be - full of twists and turrets and brocade, a direct contrast to the clean white lines of the palace at Ios - and yet Damen could not deny some fascination with its colors and textures, even if he felt somewhat overwhelmed in the particularly Veretian sumptuosity of the chambers he had been assigned. His attendant had done away with most of the excess frippery and, he had to admit, both the baths and the private training area that had been swiftly adapted for him upon order of the new King were of the highest quality.

Laurent showed up every single day, the sun barely risen, and trained with Damen without complaint, taking bruises and falls with apparent carelessness, approaching the entire thing with a kind of intellectual distance that took Damen somewhat aback, for whom the sword and the spear and any kind of sport felt like a natural extension of his own body.

Aside from training, Laurent read assiduously, voraciously, everything from history, geography and economics to Akielon mathematics and Patran poetry, sometimes helped along by a tutor but more often by himself, pulling volume after volume down from the library and occasionally asking Damen or Auguste to clarify something or other, if he thought they’d be likely to know. It forced Damen to engage more seriously in intellectual pursuits than he had for at least the past two years, when he had moved further into the arena of war and joined Kastor and his father on the council, but he enjoyed it - he sometimes found himself discussing a minor point of military history or trade strategies or playing chess with Laurent for hours, until Auguste sent someone to find them because they were delaying a meal, again.

Damen didn’t spend all his time with Laurent, however. Whenever Auguste had time to spare - and sometimes when he didn’t, as he could make out from the exasperated secretary that sometimes followed behind the young King - he would invite Damen to the proper training ground and they would spar, meeting strength against strength. Sometimes Damen would win, sometimes Auguste, sometimes they simply fought on until they decided to stop in a draw, exhausted.

Slowly but surely, Damen made the acquaintance of Jord and Orlant, and the rest of Auguste men’s followed, eager to test themselves against the Akielon and later, happy enough to share more than the training ring with him. They took him to a few taverns, where he could sometimes indulge with a willing partner, and even hinted at the houses that served as brothels for those who preferred women, but Damen figured he’d do with men well enough rather than risk a diplomatic incident because he couldn’t wait a few months to bed a woman.

Laurent and Auguste also spent time together, just the two of them, when they could, time that Damen knew was precious to the both of them. Quiet dinner in Auguste’s quarters, a fast ride to the forest beyond the castle grounds, a conversation in the palace gardens.

Damen caught sight of them, sometimes when he walked around Arles with Jord, saw Auguste tease Laurent into full blown laughter once - a clear, high sound, like a bell - and felt new resolve in his promise to help them, to protect Laurent, against whoever it was in the court of Vere who had made that laughter such a rare occurrence, particularly because there were times when Laurent was not to be found with Damen or Auguste, but chipping away at the dark puzzle he had decided to set himself against.

Sometimes, too, the princes of Vere would ask Damen to join them in their rides and they would set out at a breakneck speed, Laurent insisting that they race him in earnest, often winning and glancing back at Damen and Auguste sharply, as if trying to discern if they had held back at all.

Yes, there were charms unlooked for in Vere, once the first shock of finding himself in this country had passed.

Auguste was warm and kind and true, a brother the like of which Damen had thought he’d had in Kastor, and yet in Auguste there was no edge of competition, no needling comments. Damen could see, too, that Auguste was truly glad to find a friend where he’d thought to encounter only an enemy.

As for Laurent… it seemed to Damen that Vere was the exact kind of place which had engendered the Laurent he was slowly coming to know, who, in the shadow of his genial brother, seemed to have been raised by the hidden fountains, the myriad mosaic, the dark corners and the sudden shafts of brilliant sunlight: sometimes sweet and quiet but just as often sharp and infinitely complicated, all at once.

“I have been thinking on what your compatriot, Nikandros, said.”

They were at luncheon in Damen’s rooms, his two guards - Pallas and Hephestos - at the door and nobody but Lysimachos attending them, and yet Laurent spoke in one of the Vaskian dialects he’d decided to teach Damen a few weeks ago. No precaution enough for him.

“I wager you’ve done more than just thinking,” Damen replied after a moment. “What conclusions have you come to, then?”

Laurent ran an almost careless finger across the table they were seated at, which was decorated with a stylized mosaic representing a map of their region - Vere to the north, Akielos in the south, Patras and Vask to the east.

“At first, it seemed like nearly everyone could’ve gained from the King’s death - I wager Auguste was expected to fall first, or immediately afterwards, to have made a mistake in his grief or his rage,” Laurent said, and Damen recalled how he had stayed Auguste’s hand, back in Marlas. Not a bad guess. “Any noble who wanted more power - and all nobles want more power - was a suspect. But then I decided that it could only be a select few who could truly and immediately gain from the chaos that the kingdom would have been thrown to…”

“Those who had pressed for more under your father’s rule and hadn’t obtained it,” Damen guessed.

Laurent shot him a pleased look, which he then ruthlessly suppressed into the usual blank and slightly disdainful expression of his face. Damen refused to feel disproportionately proud of himself - really, he was a Crown Prince of Akielos, he had commanded legions, it wouldn’t do to feel this happy over a fourteen year old’s approval. And yet…

“I’ve been sitting in a few of the Council’s sessions,” Laurent continued. “I did that before, so it hasn’t drawn any attention, and I’m good at pretending that I’m just reading a book and waiting for Auguste to be done so we can go riding. In any event, I think I’ve narrowed down a few possibilities. I may have also caught glance at some correspondence.”

Damen really shouldn’t feel as amused as he did. “So who are the possibilities?”

Laurent’s finger went back to the mosaic map, tracing the limits of Arran, Alier and Delfeur. “Guion, for one. He’s always wanted Fortaine, but my father preferred to keep it in the hands of Herode’s brother Grimaude. Mathe, who my father never liked much and Auguste likes even less. Perhaps Rochefort - he’s always felt he should’ve advanced much faster in the army than he has.” He paused, then, and seemed to brace himself for what was next. “There’s one more person, but to think that he would…”

Damen put the pieces together, then, and it was as distasteful to him as it seemed to be to Laurent. The man had been kind to Damen and his fellow Akielons so far, had extended them a genial sort of welcome that not all members of the Veretian nobility had so far achieved, what with peace between their nations feeling so sudden. But it fit, awfully, and he had to be counted among the possibilities.

“Your uncle.”

Laurent nodded once, lips pressed tight.

Guion, Mathe, Rochefort and Laurent’s uncle. It was more than they’d had, but it was still difficult to think how they’d be able to narrow down the culprit when, whoever it was, had probably rid themselves of the evidence the second the King had been felled and Auguste had come back hale from the front, peace treaty and an Akielon foster-brother in hand.

“I’ll ask around discreetly about each of them,” Damen offered, and after Laurent shot him an incredulous look - what, Damen could be discreet, maybe - he amended, “I can just pretend I’m interested in learning more about Veretian genealogy or, I don’t know, venerable hunting lodges.”

Laurent snorted, but he wasn’t as pale as he was a second ago, so Damen counted it as a positive advance.

“We need something more, though,” Laurent said. “I just - I know I’m missing something, but I can’t see what.”

“Well. I trust you figure it out. In the meantime, want to play chess? Trying to beat me will serve to distract you for a while, and maybe the answer will come when you’re not looking for it.”

Laurent, who had already turned to reach for the chessboard, turned back with a raised eyebrow. “Trying?”

Damen laughed.

It was Auguste who supplied the next clue, and it made Laurent furious.

They’d taken advantage of the fact that half the Council seemed to think it was too hot to extend their midweek meeting past an hour, and they’d ridden out to Lake Ambroise, which was close enough to the palace to be seemly but far enough to be free from frippery. Pallas, Hephestos, Guymar and Lazar all followed behind at a discreet pace, on pain of Laurent’s displeased face, which was - honestly - rather frightening. Sometimes it still sort of surprised Damen that grown men could be subject to the will of a fourteen year old, but, well. Laurent.

After they dismounted and sat by the river, Auguste unceremoniously took off his boots and stuck his feet in the water, Damen following soon after, gamely ignoring Laurent’s mutterings regarding undignified royalty. Once they were settled, Auguste took out a folded piece of parchment from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Laurent.

“And this is?” asked Laurent, eyes examining the document quickly.

“A list of the best archers in Vere.”

Damen and Laurent both looked at Auguste swiftly, but Auguste - with typical aplomb - refused to shift even a little under their twin regard.

“Explain,” Laurent demanded.

“The arrow, little brother,” Auguste said. “I know you’ve been looking at the people, and I know you don’t want me to be involved with that right now, but you need to look at the how, not just the who.”

Damen nodded. Of course - this is what Laurent, what they’d both been missing. An arrow striking such a well-protected target in the midst of a battlefield, presumably at a precise moment when nobody - except an unusually observant blond princeling - noticed the direction it had come from… that had taken planning and cunning, and it wasn’t a task entrusted to just anybody but a master archer. A corruptible master archer, Damen amended in his head.

“Auguste. I told you, I asked you - you stop the war and rule the kingdom, I solve the puzzle,” Laurent was paler than usual, speaking as if far too many words were threatening to come past his lips and he was only just holding them back. “You’re still in danger, brother. If anyone should come to even suspect that you know it was a Veretian arrow that killed our father…”

Auguste placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, expression pained. “You’re in danger, too, Laurent. I’m your big brother - your King. Don’t ask me to thrust you into peril and not step in also.” He met Damen’s eyes over Laurent’s head, a small moment of shared feeling between them. “Aside from that - all I did was throw around the idea for a tournament to take place over the summer and ask the Master at Arms for lists of the best fighters, in all the disciplines, not just archery. Surely it would’ve been more suspicious if you’d asked for such an account, or Damen. I have learned some subtlety from you, you see?”

Laurent huffed, but eventually gave a small nod. “Alright. So, this is a list of the best? And where each of them is posted?” He shifted so Damen could look at the document, too.

“Yes,” Auguste replied. “Nothing seems out of order, except for two names - Langren and Therrault. They’re among the very best, but neither of them returned from Marlas and the Master at Arms couldn’t account for why.”

“Therrault fell in love with one of the girls in the village and decided to stay and work at her father’s farm,” Damen replied absently. When both Laurent and Auguste looked at him, he shrugged. “He was friends with Orlant, and Orlant talks a lot after a few drinks.”

“So Langren, then,” Laurent said. “I need some sort of reason to go to south. Perhaps if I claim there’s a particularly fascinating kind of medicinal plant that only grows there… Paschal likes me well enough, he’d be easy enough to convince.”

Auguste laughed. “No, there will be no need to invent something so convoluted. I have an idea.”

“And yet, somehow, I am not entirely at ease.”

Damen shook his head, grinning. Veretians, really.

Acquitart.

Auguste’s solution was to drum up a small feast within two days and announce, in all pomp and circumstance, that he was bequeathing Acquitart to Prince Laurent. For some, it was a rather silly indulgence necessary to furnish and occupy a brother who would surely not amount to much - no leading armies or kingdoms, that one - while for the very few privileged enough to know Laurent past what he usually allowed, it was a first task to challenge Laurent’s already evident prowess in administration and decision-making.

Damen, of course, was in the latter camp, with the added knowledge that the bestowal of Acquitart gave Laurent a perfect excuse to go south for a few weeks and invite his foster-brother, who would also probably be interested in visiting Heston and seeing for himself how the joint administration of Delfeur fared.

Laurent was pleased, Damen could see, but also worried about leaving his brother behind without his supervision, as if by not being able to see him every day he feared Auguste would vanish.

“Asklepios can stay behind, Laurent, and Caius will remain in the kitchens. I’ll ask them to oversee any medical treatment and all food that is prepared for Auguste - we can even have Auguste pretend that he feels like trying only Akielon food for a few days.”

Laurent looked at him a long moment. “Thank you, Damianos. That - it’s a good idea.”

Auguste was, of course, only too happy to engender a little chaos in the kitchens - becoming King had taken away most of his avenues to engage in any mischievous behavior.

All too soon they were ready to set off, their small contingent comprised of Laurent, Damen, Pallas, Hephestos, Jord, and Lazar, as well as Lysimachos to attend both to Damen and Laurent.

Auguste bid them a warm farewell, embracing Laurent for a long time, and pulling in Damen for a rough hug as well.

“Watch over him for me, Brother of Akielos,” he whispered.

“With as much care as you would, Brother of Vere,” Damen promised.

The road to Acquitart was pleasant and allowed Damen to enjoy the different views of Vere that he hadn’t really taken in when they had ridden north after the battle of Marlas, still then a little too dazed with everything that had happened.

Free from the palace, Laurent was more boyish than he’d been in a while, smiles coming a little easier, and he challenged each of their party in turn to quick races when the roads were clear. It made Damen smile, and he could see how each of the men quickly became charmed by the less restrained Laurent. If this is how he made men feel at fourteen, Damen could hardly imagine the effect he’d have on them at eighteen.

At Acquitart, they were received with cheers by the people who all seemed to appreciate the figure Laurent made, golden and straight-backed on his horse, laced up from head to toe in fine, dark blue. The treaty seemed to be holding, too, since their cheers weren’t much diminished by the appearance of Damen and two other Akielon warriors, and only a couple of boys eyed them with some trepidation.

Once at the main fort, they were welcomed with every courtesy by Arnoul, a retainer who seemed to have lived there all his life and who, it transpired, had met Laurent when he’d stayed here with his brother and father some years ago.

Even while knowing that they were mostly here to find some answers and, hopefully, track down the elusive Langren, Damen could see that Laurent was already cataloguing the changes he would make, various improvements he’d read about and discussed with him over books in the library, mind racing ahead as it ever did.

“Give me a tour of your new holding,” Damen said.

“It’s really not much bigger than you’ve already seen, riding in,” Laurent said, but gestured for Damen to follow regardless.

They walked around the fort, then the town, enjoying the last of the sun’s warmth. Laurent paused at a small hilltop which overlooked most of Acquitart.

“It’s beautiful,” Damen said quietly, pleased for his young friend.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Laurent agreed. “Come - Arnoul has probably prepared what passes for a feast here, and we have to figure out the best way to ask questions without being too obvious.”

During the next two days, Laurent met with everyone who worked at the fort, from stable hands to the kitchen matron, and he sat with Arnoul and the town’s regent over long meetings, discussing everything from the best time to harvest to how to optimize the passing of trade caravans coming to and from the north and south.

In the meantime, and under Laurent’s advisement, Damen rode on to Delfeur and spent his time riding with Heston and his men, happy to speak Akielon and feel not so out of place wearing a chiton amongst the men of his homeland. He was also pleased to see that the joint administration of Delfeur-Delphas was running as smoothly as could be expected, since Heston and Herode’s pragmatic nature had an easy time overriding any landed gentry that decided to take issue with the close cooperation between Vere and Akielos, and the common people were overall pleased that war was at an end and that they could see to their crops and trade without further fear that it would all be trampled upon by marching armies.

As Laurent had predicted, Heston and Herode extended an invitation to both Damen and Laurent to join them at the fort at Marlas for dinner within less than a week, and knowing it would give them the excuse to find some answers in the villages nearby, Damen accepted promptly for the both of them.

They spent a pleasant day touring the fort and outlying dwellings, and Herode - who seemed to have seen past the mild exterior Laurent had elected to present before most Veretian nobles with ease - wasted no time in requesting the prince’s expertise in some points of contention regarding trade caravans with Vask. If Heston had any doubts as to his capabilities, they were quickly silenced once Laurent had a map in front of him and a quill in his hand to make annotations.

“Come - we should leave them to it and go to the training grounds,” Pallas said. “I wager you’ve missed training with more than just Hephestos and I, and I’m certain Heston’s men will be all the better for crossing swords and wrestling with their fearsome Crown Prince.”

“I hazard I have a few years and campaigns yet before I can be properly called fearsome, but I welcome the idea,” Damen replied, gesturing at Laurent that he were retiring from the council room, and following Pallas outside.

Pallas’ suggestion was more than welcome, truly - Damen could exert himself fighting against three or six or sometimes even ten men in ways he could simply not achieve training by himself or with Pallas and Hephestos, and his sessions with Laurent were altogether too different, since he always had to adjust to the particularly Veretian instinct Laurent had when fighting.

Finally, after a particularly intense bout that had Damen dropping his sword and heaving for breath with his hand on his knees at the end - although triumphant - he glanced up to find Laurent had been watching the sport from a spot in the shade, blue eyes taking everything in as they always did.

Damen walked toward him, smiling. “Did you solve the trade routes with Vask, then?”

“Yes, and with Patras for good measure,” Laurent said, eyeing him carefully.

“Great. I’ve been sparring with Heston’s men.”

“I do have eyes, Damianos,” Laurent told him. “Regardless, I came to tell you that we’re expected to dine with Heston and Herode in another half hour, and that you and I shall do some… exploring in the village’s tavern once it’s dark.”

“Alright,” Damen said, wondering exactly what kind of exploring Laurent had in mind and knowing to expect nearly anything.

Laurent turned to go and paused just before entering the corridor, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. “Do wash properly before we sup, Damianos - however fine a figure you cut in the training ground, I don’t think our hosts will welcome you in all your state at the table.”

Damen flushed, and then felt ridiculous. The whelp! Talking to him as if he came up above Damen’s collarbone, honestly.

“You need me to wear what?”

Dinner had gone well - a mixture of Akielon and Veretian delicacies and a distinct lack of both slaves and pets, to ensure everyone’s comfort - and Damen had felt generally well pleased with the world.

Until, of course, Laurent summoned him to his chambers and shared his plan to “explore the village tavern.”

“Really, you act as if I expect you to go into the tavern naked! Veretian merchant clothes are certainly rather more dignified than your usual wear.”

Damen looked up from the mess of laces and leather and cloth in his hands. “What is certain is that we have different standards of dignified. I myself think it rather ridiculous to dress in a way that makes it impossible for a man to get ready for bed in less than an hour.”

“Be that as it may, if you wear that you can pretend to be a merchant and I’ll dress as your squire or attendant or something of the sort. It’s the only way you’ll pass as older than you are and I’ll go unnoticed. Meet me at the stables as soon as you’re ready.”

With only a bit of grumbling - and perhaps a smile from Lysimachos as he helped tie Damen into the impossible contraption that Veretian clothes were - Damen was eventually ready. Laurent, of course, was already by one of the horses they’d take and dressed in simpler and coarser clothes that Damen had ever seen on him.

“Won’t we be rather inconspicuous if we ride in?” Damen inquired.

“There’s a paddock outside the village where we can tether the horses, and I already asked one of the farm boys nearby to watch them for us.”

Of course, leave it to Laurent to plan ahead even to that.

After a short ride - and a coin with a promise for more to the farm boy - Damen and Laurent walked the rest of the way to the village tavern. Laurent, in addition to his simple clothes, placed a rather ridiculous woolen hat over his shining head of blond hair and the effect made him look something like a too-dignified street urchin, which made it a struggle for Damen not to laugh. It was honestly one of the more exciting and ridiculous endeavors he’d engaged in during his nineteen years of life - certainly life at the palace in Ios had never really allowed him to escape in the middle of the night and participate in something akin to espionage.

Just before they entered the tavern, Laurent made Damen pause with a soft hand to his arm. “Find a table of some of the older men - they always enjoy reminiscing - and slowly turn them to talk of how the province and their town has been doing since the treaty. Say you’ve been up north. People - they trust you, Damianos, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”

“Alright. And what will you be doing?”

“Sitting close by and listening while pretending to do nothing of the sort. And maybe try to convince the matron to give me some ale, as any beleaguered attendant would.”

The tavern was warm and rather full, laughter and stories intermingling with requests for more ale or cured meat and pie. Damen nodded to the tavern matron and hesitated only for a moment before heading to a table with three men who were at least in their fortieth decades.

“Good evening, sirs - would I trouble you if I shared your table? The tavern is full and I am eager to have some dinner.”

One of the men - brown hair shot through with gray and with a full beard - glanced up and, after looking Damen up and down and finding him adequate, gestured to one of the remaining chairs. “Sit down, young man, of course. What brings you here?”

“I was trading in the north - precious metal, from Patras - and I’m making my way back home again, finally,” Damen replied.

“Patran, eh? I suspect we’ll start seeing more of you now that there’s peace between Vere and Akielos,” another man interjected. “Atheus, here, is already making good money trading grain with one of the lower Akielon provinces. He could easily take his trade to Patras afterward.”

The man who’d welcomed Damen - Atheus, apparently - shook his head. “No, Raoul, not yet. We had three hard years, with the upheaval. Perhaps we didn’t have out and out war, but with tensions running high and the death of queen Hennike… no, we’ll return to regular trade with Akielon and see how we fare, before we go trading even further.”

“I think things are as calm as they’re going to get, now,” Raoul replied. “The lords of Delfeur are making a fair job of it, and it’s best to get in the trade now, before everyone else does.”

“Have things calmed down, then, since the peace treaty?” Damen asked, seeing as good an opening as any.

“Yes, a fair bit,” Raoul replied. “Still some trouble here and there - nothing is perfect - but far better than it had been for a good long while.”

“Was the retreat of both armies not chaotic last spring, then?”

“That it was, a bit,” Atheus interjected. “Why, even poor Anne had some trouble here in the tavern with two unruly soldiers - isn’t that right, Anne?” he asked the matron, who was close by, apparently giving in to Laurent’s request for ale.

Damen shifted slightly and hoped that his face wasn’t giving anything away. This could be it.

“What’s that, Atheus?”

“Those two soldiers that caused a ruckus in the spring.”

Anne nodded, clearly annoyed at the memory. “Ach, yes. I still haven’t been able to rent out the room because word got around.”

“Sorry - word got around about what?” Damen asked.

“Well, that one of the Veretian soldiers got killed there,” Anne replied. “He showed up alone, paid for at least a fortnight and not two days later another soldier shows up - big, burly man, a face that looked like he was used to fighting - and asks after him. I thought they were friends, but all too soon I heard the sound of fighting and before I could call for the guard, the big man was running out of here and left me with a body dripping blood all over the room!”

Everyone nearby shook their heads or offered injunctions against the killer - they’d clearly heard the story before, but their outrage was still somewhat alive.

“And could the guard not track down the murderer?”

“Well, those of us who got a look at him described him to the guard,” Atheus said, “and the man was apparently a known trouble-maker, so he’d been kicked off the King’s guard already, and nobody knew where he could’ve got to.”

“Aye,” Raoul added. “Gavroche, was he called?”

“Govart,” Anne said. “And if he ever dares darken my doorstep again, I shall see him hanged for the mess!”

The men were all exchanging futile threats and ideas for what they’d do if Govart ever did come back, but Damen was distracted. Behind Anne, Laurent had dropped his mug of ale, and he was pale as death.

“Looks like my assistant had a little too much ale,” Damen improvised, standing up and putting an arm around Laurent. “Come, Valere, let’s go out to the courtyard before you make a mess in here. Good sirs, ma’am - I thank you for your hospitality,” he added, dropping some coin on the table.

Once outside, and out of earshot, Damen knelt in front of Laurent. “What is it? Do you know who that Govart is they were talking about?”

Laurent swallowed, eyes downcast. “He was kicked off the King’s guard. Auguste despised him - he told me that the Master at Arms spent more time stopping fights between him and other soldiers than training them.” He glanced up at Damen, then, and there was more fear and emotion in his eyes than he’d ever let him see before. “But he has a new position, now. I heard - I heard my uncle tell Guion that he’d made Govart steward at his hunting lodge in Chastillon. He would have never given such a position to a man like that unless he owed him something.”

Damen’s mouth fell open. Even when they’d had to consider him among the possibilities, something in him had rebelled. If you couldn’t trust family…

He placed a hand on Laurent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

Laurent jerked his head in a minute acknowledgement. He was still very pale, but twin red spots had shown in his cheeks, and it took a moment for Damen to realize that it was anger - that Laurent was utterly furious and almost trembling with it.

“What will we do now?” Damen asked.

“We go back to Arles,” Laurent said. Any glimmer of softness given to him by the calm days in Acquitart or the rough clothes he was wearing was utterly gone - it was as if he was carved from marble. “And my uncle pays for what he’s done.”

At first, Damen couldn’t see what Laurent was doing about his uncle. In fact, it seemed like he wasn’t doing much of anything; he’d not told Auguste - and had secured Damen’s firm promise that he wouldn’t, either - and he hadn’t confronted his uncle in any way.

Then, he noticed that Laurent was doing rather the opposite of confronting his uncle, and could make neither head nor tails of it. It was little things, at first; Damen saw them walking together in the corridors, Laurent had dinner with him at least once or twice a week, sat next to him during some feasts.

Other things were stranger, however, such as Laurent eschewing the high collars and sober laced jackets and pants Damen had always seen him in after Marlas - which, he speculated, had been Laurent’s way of making himself seem older - and wearing brighter, looser clothes, which sometimes showed his collarbones or wrists, and had the effect of making him seem rather young and fragile. And most troubling of all - Laurent seemed to be displeased with Auguste. The brothers hadn’t dined together once since their return from Acquitart, they hadn’t gone for any rides… the entire castle seemed to be discussing it in hushed tones, Auguste was trying and failing to hide his growing worry and sadness, and Laurent’s face was more impassive than ever.

The only thing that Laurent continued to do was train with Damen, every morning at first light.

After the state of affairs had gone on for almost a month, Damen couldn’t help himself. As they finished training, Damen wiping his brow with a cloth and Laurent breathing deeply, flushed, Damen took his chance.

“Laurent… what are you doing?”

“What do you mean, Damianos? We have just finished training and I’m catching my breath, I thought it would be obvious,” Laurent replied, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t,” Damen bit out, raising a hand slightly. “Don’t talk to me as if I hardly know you, as if we haven’t spent months together becoming friends… as if I wasn’t with you at that tavern. You’re up to something, Laurent, and I can’t figure it out. All I can see is that instead of denouncing your uncle, you appear to be currying favor from him, and that you’re breaking your brother’s heart.”

“Currying favor? From that cur?” Laurent replied, voice quiet but all the more dangerous for that. “What do you take me to be? Favor, from the man who killed my father and would’ve probably killed my brother without a thought, who still might?”

“Then what is it you’re doing, Laurent?” Damen asked, desperation coloring his words. “I can’t make it out. I’ve tried, but I can’t. And if I don’t know what you’re doing, I can’t help you. Let me help.”

Laurent glanced down, clearly taking a moment to compose himself. “I can’t tell you.” When he saw Damen was about to protest, he came closer, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I just can’t, Damianos. My uncle - do you really suppose I could’ve just denounced him, and the Council would’ve taken my word? My brother would have believed me, of course, and spun into a rage and killed him, and the nobles would have revolted. Uncle has had more years than Auguste or I building support at court, he has spun a web so intricate that only incontrovertible proof could bring it down. My word and the word of a tavern matron, along with some free speculation, is not nearly enough.”

“It’s more than speculation, Laurent, surely! The facts, they clearly point to…”

“But we can’t have facts pointing anywhere, Damen, because they can just as easily be redirected,” Laurent interrupted him. “The only way is absolute proof.”

“And… dining with him, dressing in vaporous silk, and pretending you’re angry with Auguste is a way to get this proof?” Damen asked, dubious.

“He must think me keen to curry favor from him, and silly, and, yes, as if I’ve quarrelled with Auguste. A man like him - he understands ambition, wanting power, more than anything else,” Laurent said. “And it blinds him. I need - I need my uncle to think me trustworthy and empty-headed enough to let his guard down, and I must use all the tools at my disposal to do that.”

“Do you think he’ll actually tell you, then, of the plot?”

“Of course not. He thinks me ambitious and rather vapid, but not an utter moron. He’ll never speak of what he did, to anyone.”

“Then how?”

“I need him to invite me hunting, to Chastillon,” Laurent replied. “I must find proof, and to find proof I need to go to Chastillon. My uncle would’ve just as soon murdered that thug than turned him into his steward, but he didn’t. Which means that Govart has something over him, something we can use.”

“Laurent, that is madness. If either of them catches on, you’ll be alone, unprotected.”

“It is the only way,” Laurent said, shrugging, damnably unconcerned.

“No. No, it can’t be,” Damen said, shaking his head. “Please, let me help, let me come with you - something.”

“You can’t come, it would put my uncle on guard immediately,” Laurent said. “But - but if a day comes soon when I don’t come to train in the morning, go to my rooms. If one of my attendants tells you that I’ve ridden to Chastillon with my uncle, follow with Auguste and the Council after two days. I’ll need that much time, at least, and any more… well. I’d rather not spend more than one night so close to my uncle. I suspect I’ll only be able to get away from him once.”

Damen frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind now,” Laurent replied, waving an impatient hand. “Do you agree? It’s the best I can do, to ensure my uncle doesn’t smell a rat. I can’t give you any advance warning, either - he’s known for just taking off for a week without telling anybody but whomever he chooses to accompany him.”

“So I just… follow you, after two days?”

“With Auguste and the Council. Once you share our suspicions with Auguste he’ll see the need to have the affair done as quickly as possible, but only tell him. We don’t know if my uncle has swayed anyone in the Council, or among the other nobles.”

“Alright. I wish I could do more, but I’m glad to help in any way I can,” Damen said.

“You’ve already done more than... who could’ve ever thought, an Akielon barbarian...“ Laurent trailed off, head slightly cocked. After a moment, he seemed to collect himself. “Well. I must be off. And you - you go cheer up my brother, if you can.”

Damen watched him go, still unsettled. He couldn’t help but feel that Laurent was risking much more than he was letting on, and it sat ill with him, but acting outside of Laurent’s plan - going to Auguste now, for example - would probably ensure the traitor would escape justice, and place Laurent at even greater risk.

He could do nothing but wait, as asked, for the day when Laurent finally missed a training session.

The days that followed seemed interminable.

Damen trained with a quiet and pale Laurent in the early mornings, and then kept going, training with Pallas and Hephestos until they begged off, Pallas wheezing, “Enough, Exalted - you’ll put us in the ground at this pace.”

Damen also tried, as Laurent had put it, to cheer Auguste up. His efforts weren’t altogether successful - Auguste’s expression was marred by a frown more often than not - but it did them both good to go for a ride after sessions with the Council and to play chess in the evenings, even if they were both ignoring the fact that Laurent would’ve beaten them soundly.

And then, almost two weeks later, Laurent did not appear at first light to train.

Damen let ten minutes pass - a futile precaution, Laurent was never late - and then made his way to Laurent’s rooms.

“Excuse me, is Prince Laurent awake?” he asked the first attendant he found.

“No, your Highness - what I mean is, he’s not here,” the young man replied, stammering. Perhaps Damen had asked the question more forcefully than he’d intended. “He rode to Chastillon with his uncle before dawn.”

It was the answer he’d been waiting for, the answer he needed, and still it made something in Damen recoil. Laurent was in danger, and out of his sight.

“Thank you.”

He paused in the intricately decorated hallway for a moment, thinking. Laurent had asked for Auguste and the Council to follow in two days, so he’d have enough time to find proof. But Damen didn’t need proof - he’d heard the tale at the tavern, he’d seen Laurent’s face - and he couldn’t act as any kind of judge in Vere, as much as he’d like to.

Mind made up, he strode quickly to Auguste’s quarters.

“My friend, what brings you here at this early hour?” Auguste asked, rising from the table where he was having breakfast.

“Auguste, I must make a confession, and a request,” Damen replied. “It’s of a most serious nature.”

Auguste looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then spoke. “Of course. Leave us, please,” he asked the attendants. Once the room was empty, he gestured for Damen to speak.

“You asked me, after we returned from Acquitart, if I knew what was amiss with Laurent,” Damen began, choosing his words carefully. “I’m afraid to say I lied, Brother of Vere, and I ask your forgiveness. I did it because Laurent extracted a most solemn promise from me to refrain from telling you of what we learned in our journey until he indicated, and knowing he could see dangers that neither you nor I could begin to imagine, I agreed.”

“Well,” Auguste breathed out. “I can’t say I’m pleased, Damen, but I do know how compelling my brother can be,” he continued, a strange expression on his face, as if he had foreseen that Damen’s loyalty would ultimately rest with Laurent, and welcomed it. “I take it that you are now at liberty to share Laurent’s suspicions as to who the traitor is, and what you learned during your stay in Acquitart?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “On advice from my friend, Nikandros, Laurent determined who would have been most likely to have some advantage from King Aleron’s death and, we presumed, yours. Laurent deduced that the most likely options were Guion, Mathe, Rochefort and… and your uncle.”

At that, Auguste’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth before seeming to think better of it and waving Damen on.

“After you suggested we focus on the method as well as the orchestrator and gave us an opportunity to travel south, we traveled to see Heston and Herode at Marlas, and found our way, in disguise, to the tavern and inn in the village. There we learned that the archer Langren had met a bloody end at the hands of a thug named Govart.”

“Govart? That burly trouble-maker? We had to kick him out of the King’s Guard…” Auguste trailed off, and Damen could see he was making the same connection Laurent had.

“Yes. And your uncle made him steward at Chastillon.”

Auguste and Laurent were very similar to each other, although Laurent’s coloring was lighter overall, but Damen had never been as struck by their similarity as he was at this moment, watching Auguste pale and seeing how, just as it had in his brother, the betrayal turned to fury.

“I shall see him dead for this,” Auguste vowed. “I shall drag him from his rooms now, and run him through with the same ease as he had my father killed.”

If Damen had the heart to smile he would’ve then, at further evidence of how well Laurent knew his brother.

“And the Council would probably take your throne, brother,” Damen told him. “Your uncle has spent a long time and, I suspect, a great deal of riches and favors building influence in your Court. His reputation is spotless. Nobody would believe you without proof.”

Auguste almost growled. “So what, then? I should simply be content to have a regicide for a relative and move on?”

“You need proof,” Damen said. “And Laurent - Laurent has gone to find some. To Chastillon.”

“Chastillon? What -” and then Auguste ran a hand across his face, shaking his head. “Of course. That’s why he’s been acting like he has, these past weeks. To make uncle trust him and take him to the lodge. Oh, Laurent…”

“Auguste, Laurent asked me that you go with the Council to Chastillon in two days. He asked that you not tell anyone else, in case he fails, although I’m not certain how to make everyone ride to the hunting lodge without raising suspicion…”

“They still think me somewhat impulsive,” Auguste said, waving away the concern. “I’ll tell them that I had a letter from my uncle inviting the Court and that I feel like fresh country air is an excellent idea. But, Damen - if Laurent should be caught… Govart is not just a brute. He’s cruel, too, and intelligent. And my uncle, apparently, cares not a whit for his own blood.”

“I know. Which is why I’m not waiting two days. I ask your leave to ride to Chastillon, alone, at all haste,” Damen said. “I’ll disguise myself in the livery of some servant and make my way to the lodge, and do whatever I can to help and protect Laurent.”

Auguste smiled, a small, fragile thing. “I could have never foreseen what a bounty our parley would turn to, Damianos of Akielos. Seeking peace with you and your country is the best decision I’ve ever made.”

“It has been a bounty to me, also,” Damen told him.

“Go with my leave, then, and my sincere thanks,” Auguste said, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Ask Jord for anything you need - a horse, clothes - and may your gods and ours look upon us with kindness. I shall follow with the Council two days hence.”

Damen rode faster than he could remember ever doing. Chastillon was not far from the palace at Arles, thankfully, and he saw the hunting lodge - which was much closer to a fort, really, in typical Veretian excess - before too long.

Under Jord’s advice, Damen stabled his horse with a friendly farmer who lived in the shadow of the lodge and who would apparently not ask any questions in exchange for some coin.

“Do you know if the lord of Chastillon is in the lodge right now?” Damen asked him.

“He’s here, alright, but you won’t find him in the fort until the evening. They made for the runs on the north side of the forest, and they won’t be back for a while yet.”

“Thank you,” Damen replied. At least some luck was on his side.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the excess fabric and myriad lacings of his Veretian disguise, Damen walked to the entrance of Chastillon and slipped inside when some tradesmen made their way into the fort with a wheelbarrow full of fresh greens and grain which were meant, presumably, for the kitchens of the main lodge. Damen followed them discreetly and, when one of them was occupied haggling for payment, he hoisted a bag of flour and carried it inside.

Damen was not small by any means - and Nikandros had told him he suspected he would grow a bit taller still - but it was as if his servant’s livery made him invisible. He was able to walk past the pantry and kitchens into the main hall, which was all dark-panelled wood, heavy tapestries and small, stylized windows with different colored panes of glass. The effect was both suffocating and cavernous, but it made it easier for Damen’s presence to go unnoticed.

Having lived in Vere for almost ten months, Damen was not as confused by the various hallways and twisting paths traditional to Veretian architecture, and was able to make his way to the sleeping quarters. He passed the largest room - which he assumed was reserved for Laurent’s uncle - and walked on. Two doors down, he caught sight of a book familiar to him sitting at a table: a volume of Akielon myths, written in ancient High Akielon. He knew Laurent had tried to work his way through it some months back; apparently he was trying once again.

It was as good evidence as any. Damen quietly walked into the chambers and opened the book on the table to the myth of Arion, before making his way to the corner furthest away from the door, and hiding himself inside one of the largest wardrobes.

How much time passed, Damen couldn’t say. He imagined everything; he feared the worst. Had Govart caught on to Laurent’s plan? Was Laurent now the victim of a “hunting accident”, one more victim of his uncle’s ruthless ambition? Different scenarios, each worse than the previous one, danced through his mind.

Some time later - he could not say how much with any certainty - he heard someone come into the room. Damen held his breath, hoping an overzealous attendant wasn’t about to discover him in the attempt to lay out a fresh set of clothes for Laurent.

“No, I won’t need anything else. Leave me, please.”

Damen sighed in relief. That was Laurent’s clear voice, unmistakably.

“The myth of Arion, Damianos? I’m not precisely known for my skill with a lyre.”

Damen couldn’t suppress a chuckle - of course Laurent had figured it out. He struggled out of the wardrobe to meet Laurent’s sardonic gaze.

“No, but you are amidst ruffians as bad as the pirates Arion found himself with, and I hope that you, too, will emerge unscathed,” Damen said.

Laurent’s lips turned up. “An admirable sentiment, I’m sure. So. You are here, despite my express request.”

“I am,” Damen confirmed. “And before you say anything to disparage my intelligence, my aptitude at following orders or my manhood in general, I told Auguste about your uncle and he will follow with the Council - I expect they’ll be here by tomorrow evening at the latest. But I had to come, Laurent. You are here, alone in the den of wolves, and I couldn’t stand by as you faced danger alone. I swore I would protect you - don’t make my vow be more than ashes in the wind.”

In the sudden silence after his plea, Damen took in Laurent. He looked flushed from the hunt, but tired. Something fragile in his eyes, in his posture… like a young sapling unwillingly bending under too much strain.

“Alright. I - I won’t pretend your presence doesn’t ease my mind,” Laurent said, finally. “I must still go to dinner with my uncle, but I’ll do something to escape his clutches early and before he can think to lead me to his room.” Before Damen could ask what he meant, Laurent continued. “Govart has an assignation with one of the kitchen maids that I arranged for, and he shall have to leave the lodge so my uncle doesn’t catch him tupping a woman. Stay here, hidden, and I’ll come get you so we can search his rooms together. Now - turn away so I can change for dinner.”

Smiling slightly, Damen obeyed, gladder than he could say that Laurent had accepted his help.

Some time later, Damen heard movement in the room again, and Laurent opened the door to the wardrobe he was hiding in. He was also dripping wine and had an entirely stained shirt-front.

“Uh…”

“I had to pretend that the wine had sickened me into throwing up,” Laurent explained, impatiently, taking a new a shirt which was hanging above Damen. “Apparently my uncle’s reprehensible amorous leanings draw a limit at vomit, which is a relief.” That made Damen’s head come up, startled, but Laurent was speaking again before he could ask him anything. “Come - I believe we’ll have no more than two hours to search.”

After Laurent had changed his shirt, they headed out into the hallway and to another wing of the lodge, where Govart and some of the servants resided. Govart’s rooms were large, and fitted with some luxury.

“Well - where should we start?” Damen asked.

“I’ll look through the desk, you start with that chest at the foot of the bed,” Laurent said. “Be careful to remember how everything was placed and put it back just as you found it - we can’t have Govart sounding the alarm before Auguste and the Council arrive.”

Damen opened the trunk and carefully shifts an old pair of riding leathers, some rather unsavory illustrations, and myriad bric-a-brac, but found nothing resembling the proof they need. Laurent didn’t appear to have much luck with the desk, and had moved on to one of the wardrobes, wordlessly pointing Damen to a small cabinet.

Damen was conscious of time passing like he’d never been before as they methodically searched the room - had it already been thirty minutes? Could they be approaching the hour?

“Ah!”

Laurent’s cry of triumph was soft, but it made Damen whirl around.

“What is it?”

“See under there? Under the wardrobe? There’s something there - a space for a reliquary, perhaps, or some unused trapdoor,” Laurent said. He tried to shift the wardrobe without much success - it was at least twice his size - before he gave up and turned to look at Damen. “Well, it seems it’s a good thing you decided to come, Damianos, or I would have been defeated by a hunk of wood. If you would do the honors?”

Damen used every bit of strength he possessed to shift the wardrobe enough for Laurent to extract a rectangular silver box from a small space low in the wall. He looked on, tense, as Laurent opened it and extracted two sheets of parchment, eyes flying over the contents.

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” Laurent whispered. Damen could see his hands were trembling because the papers shook ever so lightly. “It’s a letter from the archer Langren to his brother - the physician Paschal, who works at Court. He explains the scheme, and his part in it, and the fact that my uncle didn’t seem inclined to keep his promises.”

“We have it, Laurent. We can make him pay.”

Laurent seemed to shake himself from his reverie. “Right. We should leave.” He placed the reliquary back in the crevice in the wall and helped Damen shift the wardrobe back. “I think nothing looks out of place.”

“And if it does, hopefully Govart will be too drunk to notice,” Damen said.

“I did tell the girl to ply him with wine unceasingly,” Laurent agreed.

They walked out of Govart’s room and back to Laurent’s quarters, every passing shadow or noise making them press themselves against the wall, hearts racing; Damen had never felt a place so near and so far.

Once they were inside, and Damen restrained himself from barricading the door, although it was a near thing, he had to ask, “What do we do now?”

“I’ll feign further illness tomorrow morning and you can probably get away with staying by the wardrobe for some time longer… outside of that, we wait. We wait for my brother, and for retribution.”

Once it all came to a head, things moved quickly.

Auguste riding in with the Council and the King’s Guard, surrounding the courtyard and covering any exit from Chastillon. A single nod from Laurent to Auguste, and the order, immediate and absolute “Arrest him!”

“Arrest me? On what charges, nephew? What is this?”

“For the murder of King Aleron,” Auguste replied, voice hard.

“This is ludicrous! I demand a right to be heard by the Council, now. You have no proof of this - this - insanity!”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Laurent said, walking out to the courtyard and joining his brother. He was wearing an unforgiving navy blue jacket, high collared and laced to the wrists, and Damen felt altogether too happy about it. “Come, uncle. Let us do this as civilized men, as you always say. Invite the Council inside, and they shall hear your story. And then - then I shall tell them mine, and give them proof besides.”

The trial was strange. Some of the members of the Council and nobles seemed inclined to believe their King and their Prince without further ado, but Guion, Mathe and others claimed over and over that it had to be a misunderstanding - that in the midst of battle, there was no way Prince Laurent could have seen the direction of the arrow that struck King Aleron dead; that even if the arrow had been Veretian, it could be nothing more than a tragic mistake; on and on.

“Enough,” Auguste said. “Enough. Prince Laurent has explained what he saw, and my uncle has claimed to be utterly innocent. I understand, brother, that you have proof to offer this Council?”

“Yes. I have a letter from the archer Langren - the man commissioned by my uncle to fire that treacherous arrow - which explains the sum total of the conspiracy and my uncle’s part in it. That thug, Govart, killed him and stole the document, which he has been using to extort my uncle for months. Or did you really all think a man who had been kicked out of the King’s Guard was a suitable steward for Chastillon?” Laurent glanced at Govart, then, who was struggling futilely under the strong grasp of Jord and Orlant.

For the first time in his months in Vere, Damen saw Laurent’s uncle something other that perfectly composed and genial. He looked scared, like a man who had wagered everything he had and what he didn’t, and had come out wanting. The members of the Council looked aghast, and even Guion refused to meet his eyes.

“The letter, Laurent’s testimony and your own attempts at disassembling condemn you, uncle,” Auguste said. “You are responsible for arranging King Aleron’s death in the battle of Marlas. Does the Council agree?”

“Aye,” they exclaimed, to the last man.

“It is so decided,” Auguste declared, his voice solemn and firm, despite what it must have cost him. “I sentence you to death, for the murder of the King. As for your accomplice, Govart, he shall be put in prison and never see the light of day again. The Kingdom of Vere can rest easy once again.”

“And, I suspect, many of its young boys,” muttered Council-member Audin, to general agreement.

The full meaning of the remark gave a new and terrible light to many of the events of the past few days, and the danger the younger Prince of Vere had faced. Damen looked at Laurent, then, and saw something akin to shock on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe that it was done, that they’d managed to triumph over his uncle.

But it was indeed over; Auguste and Laurent were safe.

The last month of Damen’s year in Vere was spent in frank enjoyment. They feasted and rode and hunted, and Damen, Pallas, and Hephestos began to teach the Veretian royals how to ride the okton, with mixed success.

Laurent still trained with Damen in the mornings, however, and refused to tell anyone else about it because, even if their most important enemy was gone, “more will come, Damianos, and it is better to be underestimated.”

Damen had given up on Laurent ever acting anything like a normal fourteen year old.

As to the Veretian court, now that Auguste and Laurent’s uncle was gone, the ill-effects of their uncle could be clearly seen, in relieved servants and tales of terrible things done to young boys behind closed doors, which made Damen tremble with rage when he thought how very close Laurent came to being one of them. Guion was in disgrace for having assisted him, and younger men were participating in the Council after Auguste had convinced some of the members who had been too loyal to his uncle to retire to the country.

Overall, the changes were good, if not easy, but Damen could see how much more at ease Auguste was now, in his own court, and how kingship was finally settling on him comfortably. Laurent, for his part, still attended Council, but saw no further need to hold back his tongue - to the regret of some of the recipients of his sharper remarks, perhaps, but certainly to Auguste’s delight.

Damen was ready to go home to Akielos, and it was his duty to go back and ride patrols with the army, join his father with the kyroi council, but there was some part of him that wished he could stay. Stay, and see Auguste do good by his people, see Laurent grow into a man.

But, as Nikandros often said - if wishes were horses, Akielos wouldn’t have to trade for so many with Patras.

“My Brother of Akielos - it has been an honor to have you with us for a year,” Auguste said, goblet held high in a toast. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your kindness, your patience, and your friendship. Long may peace last between our countries.”

Damen raised his cup, and drank deep. “Brother of Vere - the honor has been mine. I thank you and your court for your warm hospitality, and I trust that our nations will continue to thrive together, in friendship.”

Those present at the goodbye feast cheered, and immediately after the toast, Damen was inundated by various members of the King’s Guard, nobles and attendants who wanted to wish him a safe journey and say goodbye.

Finally, after Damen had shaken enough hands and clinked his cup enough that he thought his arm would fall off, he was able to escape to a narrow balcony on the side of the hall, where he could spy light blond hair.

“Laurent - are you hiding?”

“Of course not, Damianos. Princes don’t hide. I was merely taking some air,” Laurent replied, eyebrow arched.

“Oh, of course. Do forgive me,” said Damen, chuckling.

“I’ll consider it.”

They stayed in silence, looking out at the verdant fields of Vere in the dark of the night. Eventually, Damen turned to Laurent, whose profile was sharp against the moonlit dark.

“Laurent - I shall miss you. This has been a year I could never have foreseen, and I wager I have become a better man for it. Thank you for trusting me with your secrets, and for teaching me how to be better at chess.”

Laurent looked down for a moment before meeting Damen’s eyes. “I will miss you, too, Damianos. And thank you - without your excellent disguise as a Patran merchant and your presence at Chastillon to move heavy furniture, I would have had a terrible time of it.” He paused. “As for the chess - I wager you’re as good as you’re going to get, but don’t go around challenging people for the sake of it. I think you’d better stick to the sword and the okton.”

Damen laughed. “Fair enough. Perhaps you can teach me some more when you come to Ios, four years hence, and we can continue your training in the okton.”

Laurent glanced at him, then back out at the night, a soft, small smile on his face unlike any Damen had seen from him before. “Perhaps.”

Laurent of Vere was nervous.

Of course, nothing showed on his face or his general demeanor - he was riding into Ios with a straight back, clad in the finest Veretian clothing and determined to bring nothing but honor to his country and his brother the King. But as he glanced up at the imposing royal Akielon palace, all straight columns and white marble, he could admit to himself that the unusual unrest in his stomach was, indeed, caused by nerves.

People in Ios lined the streets to cheer his small retinue as they rode by - Laurent, like Damianos four years ago, was only accompanied by two guards, a physician, an attendant, and a cook - and it was this, more than anything, that gave the most honest evidence for the change the Treaty of Marlas had brought about. Veretian royalty openly welcomed in the streets of Ios - it would have been unheard of, five years before.

As they entered the gates of the palace, Laurent caught sight of the King of Akielos, Theomedes, and Damianos and Kastor next to him, waiting to meet him in the wide steps leading up to the entrance. Some of the kyroi were present, too, along with their Commanders - Laurent could recognize Nikandros among them - and the Akielon Royal Guard was formed behind them. Trumpets sounded, and Laurent dismounted, his reins immediately taken by one of the stable masters.

“Laurent, Prince of Vere, we welcome you to Akielos,” Theomedes said, in a deep, ringing voice. “You will be our guest for one year, in accordance with the Treaty of Marlas, and as a reaffirmation of the bonds of friendship that unite our countries.”

Laurent bowed his head slightly, as befitted a prince bowing before a king. “King Theomedes, I thank you for your welcome, and I bring you the warmest regards of my brother, King Auguste, along with these gifts, to give testament to the peace and love between Vere and Akielos,” he said, gesturing Lazar and Orland forward. They bore a casket which held Veretian wine of the finest quality, a tapestry made in the lightest cloth available which depicted the signing of the treaty of Marlas, and a circlet of gold set with sapphires, fine enough for a King. Or a Crown Prince.

Only after the formalities were done did Laurent look at Damianos, who was, of course, looking back with an expression entirely too open for an heir to the throne. Laurent had to admit that, foolish expression aside, he looked well - if he had been tall and imposing even when he was nineteen, four years later he was more impressive still, grown fully into his size and breadth and every inch the Akielon warrior-prince. And yet, for all his size, his hair remained impossibly soft-looking, his brown eyes warm.

“Prince Laurent - welcome,” Damianos said, smiling broadly. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome you in my home, as you did in yours.”

“Thank you, Prince Damianos,” Laurent replied, nodding graciously.

“Allow me to introduce my brother, Kastor - you might remember him from Marlas.”

“Of course,” Laurent said, nodding to Kastor in turn. One to keep an eye on, certainly, if the dark look on his face was any indication.

“Come - Damianos will accompany you to the quarters that have been prepared for you, and tonight we shall have a feast to welcome you,” King Theomedes said, interrupting the introductions, and turning to head back inside the palace, the kyroi, commanders and guards following summarily.

Laurent followed the procession inside, Damianos walking by his side. The royal palace was as impressive inside as it seemed from the outside, the wide, open hallways emphasizing the scale and size of the place and ensuring spectacular views of the sea and countryside.

As they walked, any attendant or slave they saw either bowed low or prostrated themselves, an absolute act of submission and devotion that Laurent couldn’t help but feel discomfited by. And yet - were the pets of Vere much different? They had a choice, he supposed, but not much of one. The only comfort he had is that Vannes and he had helped Auguste convince the Council to outlaw anyone from keeping pets who were not at least eighteen years of age. Laurent hoped his uncle rolled in his grave over that one.

“Here we are,” Damianos said, as two guards opened the doors to a massive room. “I - I trust you’ll be comfortable. Every effort has been made.”

It was an understatement - the room was outfitted in delicate gauze, gold and traditional Akielon ceramic, an elegant table, a desk and even a small bookcase with various volumes on the shelves. There was also a balcony that had an unparalleled view of the ocean.

“No private training ground?” Laurent asked finally, lips twitching up.

Damianos looked startled, for a moment, and when he saw Laurent’s expression, smiled ruefully. “No. Of course, if you should wish to train privately at any moment, the order will be given for everyone to clear the space.”

Laurent walked further inside, running a hand over the light bedspread, then a finger over the titles of the books. “This is more than adequate, Damianos. Thank you.”

“I really can’t say this enough, Laurent - I am very glad that you are here,” Damen said. “I know we’ve exchanged letters, but, well. It’s not the same.”

Laurent turned back to look at him. “No, it is not quite the same. You, it seems, have grown even taller and broader.”

“As have you. Age suits you. I mean to say, not that you were unsuitable before, but now - you, uh. You look very well. ” Damianos said, drinking him in with his eyes, as if he could hardly believe that Laurent was no longer an imperious, short fourteen year old. There was something warm and almost hungry in his eyes, but not necessarily unwelcome. “I shall leave you to rest, now. The baths have been prepared for your use, and I’ll be back before the feast to accompany you to the hall.”

“Thank you,” Laurent said, almost unable to keep himself from smiling. It seemed he wasn’t the only one fighting some nerves.

His attendant, Radel, was overseeing the swift unpacking of his belongings, and Paschal, Lazar and Orlant were dismissed with a mere glance - they certainly deserved the rest. As for Laurent - a bath sounded very good, indeed.

Radel was finishing the braiding on his hair and fitting a simple golden circlet on his head when the guards at the door announced Damianos.

“Yes, come in,” Laurent said, absent-mindedly, fiddling with one of his sleeves. He had worked extensively with a Veretian merchant called Charls to reproduce his preferred cut and style in much lighter cloth, in order for him not to faint with heat in Ios. The result was satisfying, but the sensation would take some getting used to - the jacket he was wearing for tonight was cut from deep indigo silk.

“Laurent, you look - wonderful,” Damianos said behind him.

Laurent turned. “Yes, I do believe we established that not too long ago,” he replied, feeling rather pleased when Damianos blushed slightly. “But thank you.”

Damianos himself cut an impressive figure in a resplendent white chiton held at both shoulders with golden lion-headed pins, together with a short red cape. Laurent would never tell him, of course, but traditional Akielon wear suited him infinitely better rather better than counterfeit Patran merchant trousers, or even Veretian leathers.

“Are you ready, then?” Damianos asked.

“Lead the way, Damianos.”

As they walked out of his room and through the wide, echoing hallways, Laurent had a strange feeling that Damianos had almost placed a hand at the small of his back, or made a swiftly aborted move to do so, but when he glanced at Damianos from the corner of his eye, he saw his powerful arms moving normally at his sides. Perhaps it had only been wishful thinking, reverting to feeling fourteen again and Damianos his tall, barbarian protector, always behind him - but that had been many years ago. Silly to dwell on it now.

“The Exalted Damianos, Crown Prince of Akielos, and His Highness Laurent, Prince of Vere!”

Laurent had become used to drawing eyes when walking into a crowded room since he’d turned sixteen, but there was no denying that the experience of walking into the feast hall of the Akielon royal palace with Damianos at his side was a little more daunting than the Veretian court he’d become used to. The skin unconsciously on display in the hall discomfited him just slightly; he was used to Veretian sumptuosity - even if he didn’t favor it - and while some pets dressed in silk and courtiers wore jewels and bright colors, it never seemed quite as uncovered as the myriad brown, gold and, to a lesser extent, white skin on display.

Damianos walked slowly with Laurent at his side toward the reclining couches in a small dais at the end of the hall where the King was waiting, and he stopped every few paces to introduce him to someone.

“This is Meniados, kyros of Sicyon… Makedon, commander in Thrace… Kassandros, kyros of Ellium…”

Laurent kept a pleasant and calm expression on his face, nodding to each new person in turn as if he had never heard of them. In his head, however, each person slotted in neatly to the information he had read and painstakingly catalogued months ago regarding each Akielon province and their corresponding kyros - he could recall whether they were renowned for military prowess or whether their strength was in the richness of their land, and, of course, whether they seemed to welcome the Treaty of Marlas or accept it only begrudgingly.

Just before they reached their seats next to King Theomedes, Damianos shot Laurent an amused glance. “You could have probably told each of them what province they commanded and what their most common import was after hearing their name, yes?” he asked in quiet Veretian.

“It always pays to be informed, Damianos,” Laurent replied, shrugging slightly.

“You’re not just informed, Laurent - you’re a one-man spy network.”

Laurent just raised an eyebrow and reclined carefully, refusing to acknowledge the ridiculous accusation. He was hardly a one man network - Vannes and Kashel would certainly take umbrage at the notion. According to them, men could hardly be relied upon for truly delicate spy work.

His place on the dais gave him a clear view of the room, and as he accepted a fig wrapped in bacon and waved away wine in favor of water, he took advantage of the possibility of seeing the ebbs and flows of the Akielon court. It was clear Theomedes was well respected and beloved - he was toasted often, and several of the kyroi walked up to the dais to pay their respects.

If Theomedes was the steady foundation of the court, immovable and strong as a mountain, it was clear Damianos was the sun. The kyroi, the commanders and all the young noblemen steadily approached him, bowing before engaging in conversation that led just as easily to laughter as to another toast. For his part, Damianos was open and engaging, carrying the weight of his nobility with ease.

Laurent could see now, with the wisdom of hindsight, why Damianos had always felt much more comfortable amongst the soldiers than the nobles in Vere - his manner was unsuited for the undercurrents and double-meanings of the Veretian court - even Auguste, while genial and kind, was reserved and careful with his nobles. It was interesting to see an unrestrained Damianos, who was respected precisely because of that forthrightness.

As for Kastor, it was easy enough to surmise that the bastard was not any happier with his lot in life than he had been in Marlas, and perhaps a deal more discontent. He was no better at masking his feelings than Damianos, and not blessed with the features that could excuse such frowning.

The servants brought by several more plates of Akielon delicacies and a troop of slaves played the kithara and flute. As the feast continued, Laurent saw several of the attendees stand and dance, or stand in clusters, talking and laughing. Damianos was all too soon pulled into a discussion with some of the commanders, and Laurent waved him away when he glanced back - he would survive sitting by himself.

“So, the little shadow is not drinking wine tonight?”

Laurent glanced to his right to find Nikandros had sat next to him.

“I don’t know that I’m quite that little, anymore. Of course, any comparison to Damianos is unfair - we can’t all be giants,” Laurent replied, taking a delicate sip of water. “And I find it useful to keep my head clear when I first arrive to a new place, to ensure I act with due respect to my hosts.”

“Truly? Or are you rather keeping your head clear to better divine the thoughts of every man and woman here?” Nikandros further inquired, amused.

“That is but a fortunate side-effect, I’m sure,” Laurent demurred.

Nikandros laughed loud enough at his answer that they drew the eyes of several people, Damianos among them.

“Let us put it to the test, then. What are your thoughts on the lady sitting by Meniados, the kyros of Sicyon?” Nikandros asked, switching to Veretian.

Laurent looked discreetly toward the direction indicated by Nikandros, seeing a beautiful, young lady who was utterly bored and clearly not charmed by the rowdy story her husband was sharing with a few soldiers.

“That Meniados should probably pay more attention to his wife than to his friends, if he does not want her to end up in the bed of young Apollonius.”

“Apollonius?” Nikandros asked, confused, looking between the man in question and the lady. “Well, I’ll be damned. You are quite right.”

“Of course I am,” Laurent said. “And that soldier over there - Philotas? - is clearly angling to get into Makedon’s good offices, perhaps earn a promotion under his command, but he has miscalculated how much griva he can handle. I wager he shall pass out within a half glass and end up mucking the stables for his troubles.”

“Your mind truly never stops, does it?” Nikandros asks, smiling. “When Damianos told me some of your adventures in Vere after he came back, I was hard-pressed to believe the more ludicrous tales, but I can see he probably didn’t tell me the half of it, with you leading the way into trouble.”

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, Nikandros,” Laurent replied, arching an eyebrow. “I behaved with all the decorum demanded of a Prince of Vere.”

Nikandros laughed again.

“Laurent? Would you like some more wine, anything?”

Laurent glanced up to see Damianos had returned, and was standing next to his settee, looking between Nikandros and him almost… jealously. Which was a rather ludicrous notion.

“I’m perfectly well, Damianos, thank you,” Laurent replied. “Why don’t you sit down? You’re far too tall for me to talk to comfortably when standing. And of course princes of Vere can’t be seen to strain their necks in such a fashion.”

“Of course,” Damen replied, chuckling. “So, tell me - has Nikandros told you about when we snuck into the Royal Gardens to steal some apricots?”

“No, Damen, don’t,” Nikandros groaned.

“Please, do,” Laurent said, taking another sip of water.

As he did, he saw someone looking toward them out of the corner of his eye - a young, blonde woman, very fair. He’d seen Damianos talking to her earlier, but it seemed the conversation had not lasted very long, and she now looked their way with something dark and angry in her eyes. It seemed she had not appreciated Damen’s attention straying. Laurent kept track of her without seeming to - interjecting when he had to while Damianos told his tale - and saw her make her way to Kastor and his retinue. He suppressed a sigh; it was so bothersome when people were predictable.

“The blame fell on Kastor, I’m afraid, and we could never muster the bravery to say otherwise,” Damianos said.

“Thievery, misdirection, and dishonesty - truly, Damianos, how Veretian of you,” Laurent teased.

Damianos shrugged. “As it turns out, rather useful skills to have. Particularly when taught by someone as skilled as you. Perhaps you could continue your lessons, this year.”

Laurent looked down, suppressing a smile. “Perhaps,” he said quietly.

Laurent slowly settled into life in Akielos, which certainly had a different rhythm from his life in Vere.

For one, he could devote more time to reading and research than he had been able to for at least three years, since he had taken an active role in administering not only Acquitart, but also estates in Varenne and Marche, and since Auguste had asked him to become permanent part of the Council, to the consternation of some of the more old-fashioned members. The palace library had invaluable ancient Akielon texts that Laurent was enjoying working his way through, and King Theomedes could sometimes be counted on to provide more accurate translations or context over dinner.

For another, Damianos was constantly about, challenging him to a game of chess or inviting him out to ride until they reached the cliffs facing the sea, which reminded him of being younger and so much freer, albeit terrified that whoever had killed his father would snatch his brother away, too. The Akielon landscape was beautiful enough to erase his dark thoughts, however, and of course it helped that he beat Damianos almost every time they rode and this time was certain the noble barbarian was not letting him win.

Of course, he still had to correspond extensively with the retainers in each of his holdings, and he kept up a steady exchange of letters with Auguste, Vannes, Herode, Torveld of Patras, Kashel of Vask and other useful contacts in various places. For this purpose, Damianos had ensured Laurent had free rein over a pleasant corner in the library with a window facing the sea.

Damianos was keeping him company one afternoon - ostensibly reading a tax report from the kyros of Kessus, but going about it rather slowly, from what Laurent could see - when he remarked, “I wager you could run a kingdom from a tavern in the furthest reaches of Patras, with only parchment and quill at your disposal.”

“You exaggerate, Damianos - I’d need wax to seal the letters, too,” Laurent said, and Damianos laughed. “In any event, I don’t run the kingdom - Auguste does. I merely supply with him some advice and information.”

“Any king would be lucky to have even half of that from you,” Damianos replied, smiling warmly.

Laurent poured himself some water in a ceramic glass and drank deeply, hoping the action would forestall a blush. “Well. As you are my host, it would be remiss of me not to offer my help - you seem to be ready to toss that tax report to the fire. Would you like to go through it together?”

“Thank you, that would be most welcome,” Damianos said, bringing a chair closer to Laurent’s chosen table. “The problem is that some people in the province have complained that taxes are too high, but, as the kyros writes, the revenue from the whole province is still rather low - how can we obtain what is needed to provide adequate services for everyone without raising taxes to an unreasonable rate?”

Laurent looked over the numbers. “Hmm. Perhaps a differentiated tax rate…”

And thus they whiled away the afternoon.

Laurent also trained with the sword every day, after dawn broke, a habit ingrained in him since the year Damianos had lived in Vere. He had grown stronger and more agile - had managed to beat Auguste more than once - but it still felt important to hide his skill, to ensure that he was underestimated. He hesitated to ask Damianos to train with him again, so Orlant and Lazar took turns at sparring with him, and some days he simply went through various thrusts, parries and drills alone.

Overall, days passed quickly and well. There were, however, certain shadows encroaching upon his time in Akielos, and Laurent worried that they could easily become a storm. It was clear to him that Kastor’s envy of his brother grew as Theomedes aged more visibly and leaned on Damianos for various matters of state. Envy could be forgiven, up to a point - though to Laurent it evidenced a deplorable lack of intelligence, to waste so much time wishing for another’s lot instead of making do with one’s own - but Kastor’s envy was turning to a simmering resentment waiting to burst.

The fool paraded around the Royal Palace putting on the airs of a crowned prince, which would have been bad enough without the fact that he was gathering some followers. Added to that, Laurent was certain Kastor and his new friends were the source of a few unsavory rumors regarding Damianos. To counter this poison, Laurent had enlisted Radel, Paschal, Orlant and Lazar to talk discreetly among the servants and soldiers and suppress the rumors accordingly.

A further, if less serious, problem was the lady who had been so vexed over Damianos ignoring her attentions. Laurent had learned she was called Jokaste, she came from a relatively noble family and, most importantly, was rather more ambitious than her family could easily provide for. She seemed to be making overtures to Kastor, but Laurent was confident that with adequate incentive - appealing to her brain and ambition, rather than her beauty and graces - she could be swayed to Damianos’ side. Something to consider further, certainly.

“So, what are these games in commemoration of?” Laurent asked, as he and Damianos walked down the palace steps out into the grounds, which were teeming with people.

“It is the celebration of the first battle won by King Euandros, founder of the house of Theomedes, and through which Akielos gained control of the island of Isthima,” Damianos replied, solemnly.

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “In other words, merely an excuse to have soldiers and nobles gather and pound each other into the dirt to garner praise.”

Damianos smiled, a small, impish thing. “Don’t forget the feasting and toasting afterwards.”

“Of course. How could I forget the toasting,” Laurent agreed dryly.

They reached the raised white pavilion where King Theomedes and many of the kyroi were gathered, discussing the upcoming events and placing mostly friendly bets.

“What will you compete in today, Damianos?” Laurent asked.

“Wrestling, I think, and the okton, of course.”

“Not the sword?”

“No - I shall leave that for Nikandros,” Damianos replied, raising his voice slightly, clearly intending the man to overhear. “He’s lost so often in the past few years, he needs a bit of a helping hand.”

Nikandros walked towards them. “I need no help, Damen,” he scoffed. “And I’d be glad to prove it to you. Anyway, even if you were competing in the sword today, I’d still advise everyone to bet against you and in favor of someone else.”

“Oh? And who, pray tell, is the person who is supposed to be a better bet than me? You? Kastor?”

“Laurent, of course,” Nikandros said.

“Laurent?”

“I gather you haven’t seen him training, but I’ve caught sight of him a few times in the past months. His form is enviable,” Nikandros confirmed.

When Damianos and Nikandros turned to look at him, Laurent merely raised an eyebrow, ruthlessly suppressing his surprise at Nikandros’ words . “I’m a prince of Vere. Of course my form is enviable.”

Damianos smiled slightly. “I should have guessed you’d never stopped training - it’s not in your nature to quit. Well, it would be our honor if you participated in the games, Laurent.”

Laurent looked at Damianos for a moment, yet could see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’ll think on it.”

Laurent and Damianos took their seats at the front of the raised pavilion, amidst the kyroi and other nobles. Damianos sat directly next to Theomedes, and Laurent could see an empty seat to the King’s other side.

“Is Kastor not coming?” Laurent asked Nikandros softly.

“He is - he’ll be competing in archery, I believe. However, he has of late prefered to sit together with his friends and other acquaintances in one of the other pavilions,” Nikandros replied, something almost imperceptible in his voice denoting reproof. Clearly, he was not enchanted with the bastard either.

From his vantage point, Laurent could see the smaller pavilions that had been arranged around the wide arena where the various events would be held. He spotted Kastor in a mid-sized tent, holding court amongst the men that usually followed him everywhere around the palace - middling nobles, disgruntled lieutenants and the sort, and although there were a few women among them, it seemed Jokaste had not yet gone so far as to align herself quite as overtly with the faction. The fact that Kastor would so publicly spurn his place at King Theomedes’ side in favor of his group of malcontents made Laurent uneasy, and he made careful note to be on guard.

“Is everything alright?” Damianos asked.

Laurent looked at him for a moment, taking in the furrow between his brows and the warm brown eyes that showed earnest concern. If Laurent was to protect him, he had to know precisely what he was dealing with, and alerting Damianos at such an early stage would only succeed in making his enemies hide their intentions even deeper. Laurent would have to keep him in the dark just a little longer.

“Yes, quite. I was just asking Nikandros which noble houses had their own pavilion.”

Damianos didn’t look entirely convinced, but he had, at this point, clearly learned when Laurent would not be pressed for more.

A slave approached with sparkling wine, water and various delicacies, and Laurent took water as he usually did. Damianos did too, however, which was not usual.

“I thought you said the event was for feasting and toasting,” Laurent said.

“Not yet - I have to win, first, so for now I’ll stick to water,” Damianos replied with a grin. As competitors began to walk into the field, he gestured. “Look, the javelin throw is about to start.”

Laurent observed the event carefully, noting where the style of the participants deviated from Veretian tradition. The strength required to throw the javelin almost ensured that everyone participating were at least as big as Damianos, but there was also a great deal of technique involved - Auguste would have probably thrived. Laurent would suggest it to him when he returned to Arles. The winner approached the pavilion and King Theomedes placed a laurel leaf crown on his head, congratulating him heartily and wishing him luck on the okton.

Archery was next, and Laurent suppressed a grimace of distaste at the overt showmanship Kastor displayed when competing, cheered on and egged on by his sycophants. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the bastard was quite proficient with a bow, but it did not make up for his more unpleasant qualities. After Kastor was crowned the winner by Theomedes, Damianos offered him a cup of wine which had been handed to him by one of the slaves.

“Congratulations, brother,” Damianos told him. “Excellent shooting, as ever.”

“Thank you, Damen,” Kastor replied, taking a drink. “I hope my luck holds at the okton. I shall see you there,” he continued, a strange, sharp sort of smile on his face. With a shallow bow, he went back to the smaller pavilion.

At the okton? An inkling of what Kastor might have planned struck Laurent, then, and he felt foolish for taking so long to understand. “The winner of each event competes at the okton at the end?” he asked Nikandros, just to be sure.

“Yes, unless they prefer not to. Although that would be foolish - earning a place to ride in the okton is too high an honor, particularly when they know the Crown Prince will participate,” Nikandros replied.

“Interesting,” Laurent said. “You know, I’m feeling rather inspired. I think I shall compete in the sword, after all. Perhaps I shall be fortunate enough to win a place in the okton as well.”

“Alright,” Nikandros said. “I shall let King Theomedes and the Master of Games know.”

With a glance at Damianos, who was busy discussing some fine point of wrestling technique with Makedon, Laurent called Lazar to his side.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Lazar, I intend to compete in the sword. Please arrange for Radel to have my wardrobe and weapon ready.”

Lazar cocked an eyebrow at Laurent’s instructions, but nodded.

With that settled, Laurent gave his full attention back to the field in front of him, and, particularly, the pavilion where Kastor and his friends held court.

After a rather uninspired horse-racing competition - Auguste and Laurent would have swept the field - it was time for the sword bouts to begin. King Theomedes stood, and the clear sound of trumpets quieted the crowd.

“I am pleased to announce that our honored guest, Prince Laurent of Vere, has expressed his desire to match the best of Akielon in the field today. Thus, whoever is the victor in the three rounds of bouts will then duel with the Prince.”

It was rather more grandiloquent than Laurent expected, but he was pleased to see that the crowd and, most importantly, the fighters, were clapping. Damianos glanced at Laurent with some surprise and worry evident in his face, as if he was concerned that Theomedes was somehow forcing Laurent into the field, but he was appeased when Laurent gave him a small nod.

Once the first round began, Laurent focused all his concentration on the participants. Some, it was clear, would be eliminated quickly, but he could pin-point at least three that would be sure to be among those to make it to the final round: Philotas, who remained keen as ever to impress General Makedon; Miltiades, who was part of the retinue to the kyros of Isthima; and Epiktetos, who was part of Nikandros’ guard. Laurent was certain he would face one of the three.

Out of the eight competitors, four were eliminated, and the second round began. This bout was rather more vicious, but the three that Laurent had identified previously again seemed to stand out, although Mitiades seemed to be tiring.

Finally, the third round began between Philotas and Epiktetos. They were almost matched in skill and strength, swords clanging in force, and Laurent carefully considered the ways he would have to thrust and parry to turn the force behind the Akielon sword-strike back against his eventual antagonist.

“Who do you think will win?” Damianos asked, quietly.

Laurent cocked his head, considering the fighters. “Philotas. He conserved his energy in the earlier bouts, and his footwork is slightly faster.”

Damianos made a small noise of agreement. “And do you think you can beat Philotas?”

“Shouldn’t my teacher know the answer to that question?”

Damianos looked down, smiling slightly. “I haven’t seen you fight in a long time. But you have more determination in a single finger of your hand than Philotas does in his whole self, so I would bet on you with confidence.”

“Best not to. It wouldn’t do for the Prince of Vere and the Crown Prince of Akielos to be accused of arranging matches.”

A shout and the applause of the crowd drew their attention back to the sparring field, where Philotas had disarmed and defeated Epiktetos.

“You were right,” Damianos said. “I trust I will be, too.”

“Thank you, Damianos.”

Laurent rose, then, and as King Theomedes congratulated Philotas and crowned him with laurel leaves, he made his way down to the side of the field to meet Radel and Lazar to be outfitted and warm up.

The bout began some twenty minutes later, after Philotas rested and was seen to by slaves and physicians.

“I saw you going through drills,” Philotas taunted in Akielon, as they circled each other. “Very impressive, Prince of Vere. But I don’t think I’ll have any trouble dispatching you - you’re half the size of Epiktetos.”

Laurent, long since inured to being on the receiving end of much worse attempts at insult - even under Auguste, the Veretian court could be a viper’s den - didn’t waste his breath by replying, and parried forward, forcing Philotas to take a step back.

“So, the pup has bite,” Philotas breathed, and struck forward with strength, clearly banking on his sheer size and muscle to overpower Laurent.

Of course, neither Philotas nor anybody else in Akielos knew that Laurent had been trained by Damianos for a year, and after he left, that he had hired private instructors from Patras and Vask - with due care taken to ensure that Lazar or Orlant chaperoned - and had periodically tested his skill against Auguste. And so, to the shock of Philotas and the surprise and muted delight of the crowd, Laurent was able to side-step the powerful thrust and make Philotas over-balance.

The bout carried on in much a similar way - Philotas would try to test him in some new way and find that Laurent could answer, and answer well. Slowly, the aggression Philotas had displayed at the start diminished, and as he glanced Laurent with more and more respect, clearly finding a worthy opponent where he’d thought to find only a spoiled Veretian prince, the match became more analytical, a careful give-and-take that had them both breathing hard before long.

Then, at last, Philotas made a slight misstep and Laurent took lightning-fast advantage, employing one of Damianos’ preferred moves to step inside the body of his opponent and disarm him.

It was over - Laurent had won.

The sound of the crowd cheering and clapping was somewhat muted by his exhaustion, but Laurent could somehow hear Damianos’ voice clearly amidst the noise, cheering for Laurent. Truly, the man could be damnably indiscreet.

Laurent approached Philotas, and placing a hand over his chest, gave him a small bow. “I thank you, Philotas of Thrace, for a well-fought bout. It has been some time since I had a chance to test myself against one of your quality.”

Philotas grinned, and extended a hand. “Thank me? Truly, Prince Laurent, I and my entire regiment should be thanking you for years yet. I learnt parries from you today that we shall all spend hours attempting to echo. It was my honor.”

Laurent took Philotas’ hand, working hard to mask his surprise. He hadn’t thought to find such uncomplicated acceptance after the acrimonious beginning.

“That was a sight for the ages,” King Theomedes exclaimed. “Philotas, Prince Laurent - we thank you for your efforts, and we shall have the pleasure of watching you compete at the okton, if you wish it.”

“Thank you, King Theomedes. It will be a pleasure to participate in such a noble Akielon tradition,” Laurent replied.

There it was. He had a place in the okton, to better keep sight of Kastor and protect Damianos. Now all that was left was to wait, and remain vigilant to glean the rest of the plan. He followed Radel to one of the small tents set up for the competitors, where hot water and a change of clothes were waiting for him. After making sure nobody else was close enough to overhear, he called Orlant to him.

“Yes, your Highness?”

“Orlant, I shall compete in the okton, together with Prince Damianos and, perhaps, Kastor. I need you and Lazar to oversee the preparations of my horse and spears and, as much as you can, to ensure that nobody interferes with the horses or spears of the other competitors,” Laurent said. “But - and this is imperative - be as discreet as possible.”

Orlant nodded. “Of course, Prince Laurent. It will be done as you ask.”

With that, Laurent made his way back to the raised pavilion and took a seat next to Nikandros to see Damianos compete in wrestling. Or, rather, utterly demolish his competition in wrestling.

“Would you care for a wager?” Nikandros asked, smiling slightly.

Laurent shot him an incredulous look. “I grant you that wrestling is by no means a traditional Veretian sport, Nikandros, but even I can see betting on anybody but Damianos is a fool’s errand.”

“Ah, young Pallas seems to be doing well,” Nikandros said, shrugging. “He’s a soldier in my regiment. I think in a few years he might give even Damen some trouble.”

“Then perhaps in a few years I shall consider your wager,” Laurent told him.

“I think that even if years passed and more formidable opponents appeared, you would still hold faith with Damen,” Nikandros remarked quietly, looking at Laurent with shrewd eyes.

Laurent’s mouth twitched slightly, but he gave no further indication that he’d heard what Nikandros had said. His trust in Damianos… it was earned, and complicated, and not something Laurent liked discussing with others.

A roar of cheering from the crowd drew their attention back to the games fully, in time to see Damianos emerge victorious. He was crowned with laurel leaves, smiling wide, at once magnificent and humble, and Laurent couldn’t help but think that the ancient Akielon gods and heroes had come to life in the body of the Akielon crown prince.

“And now, the field shall be prepared for the okton!” King Theomedes announced, to raucous applause, while various slaves and attendants set up the targets and brought out the color-tipped spears each participant would use.

Laurent walked down to the field to where Lazar and Orlant were waiting for him together with his horse Cuivre.

As he bent down to check Cuivre’s hooves and his stirrups, Lazar leaned closer to him, ostensibly to help.

“Your Highness, I saw someone in Kastor’s retinue exiting the royal stables a few minutes ago. I - I can’t be sure what they did, the horses seemed alright, and I couldn’t take a closer look because Prince Damianos’ attendants came into the stable.”

Laurent nodded, rising to check Cuivre’s bridle. “Anything else?”

“No. The spears seem to be fine - Kastor will be using the white-tipped ones.”

Laurent couldn’t quite understand what Kastor intended by weakening or poisoning Damianos’ horse - surely all that would happen would be that the Crown Prince would be soundly defeated at the okton. As he led his horse to the spot where the competitors would take up their spears and begin the course, he came upon a small commotion.

Kastor had clearly drunk a purgative of some sort, and was pleading a sudden illness - the white pallor of his face and sweat on his brow serving as evidence.

“There is no need to delay the okton, Father, please. Lykourgos of Aegina can ride in my place, he is my friend and was second to me in archery,” Kastor was saying, putting a hand on the man he intended to be his replacement. “He will surely do me proud in his first okton.”

And just like that, it became clear.

Laurent had learnt that some trouble was stirring in Aegina, one of the Akielon provinces that bordered Patras - some of the lesser noble families were apparently chafing under the rule of the kyros and King Theomedes. Easy enough for Kastor to gather one or two sons of the minor nobles to him, to ingratiate himself with them, convince them he could become a king to favor them if only he had the chance.

And the chance was here. A weak horse for Damianos; a clearly inexperienced competitor. A conjunction of seemingly unrelated events that could easily lead to one tragic denouement: the accidental death of the crown prince in the otkon.

Laurent could not let it happen.

“Damianos, I need you to trade horses with me,” he said, quietly and urgently.

Damen, who had been too distracted with the interplay between Kastor and King Theomedes to notice Laurent arriving next to him, jumped in surprise.

“Trade horses? Laurent, what-”

Laurent shushed him impatiently. “I need you to loudly make a wager that I wouldn’t be able to compete adequately in the okton if I was riding an Akielon mare instead of my own horse.”

“But - but of course you could compete, you’re the best rider I know,” Damianos replied, confusion marring his features.

Laurent barely held himself from rolling his eyes. “I thank you for the compliment, but please, do as I ask.” He placed his hand over Damen’s, where it rested on the reins of his mare. “I know this is abrupt, and I promise I’ll explain afterwards, but you need to trust me right now. Switch our horses, and make it seem as part of a game or a wager.”

Damianos glanced at their joined hands and then back at Laurent, his golden-brown eyes penetrating. “Of course I trust you.”

Laurent nodded and stepped back, and Damianos, with acting skills henceforth unsuspected, called out in a teasing voice. “I’m not too sure, Brother of Vere, I think Akielon horses are far more difficult to handle than those they raise in the fields of Arles.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow and spoke louder than he usually did. “Oh? Well, I think you would be hard-pressed to handle a Veretian horse through an okton, Prince Damianos - our horses are far more tricky.”

“Tricky, eh? Well - let’s settle it once and for all. Let us switch mounts, and may the best man win,” Damianos proposed, smiling wide enough that the people around them cheered at the wager, taking it as friendly ribbing and not the beginning of another Veretian-Akielon war.

Laurent let himself smile ever so slightly, and offered Cuivre’s reins to Damianos. “Your horse, Damianos.”

Damianos accepted them with a regal nod of his head, and gave Laurent his mare’s reins.

Due to force of habit, and on the off chance he could discern what was wrong with the mare, Laurent checked the saddle and bit and ran a hand across her body. He could feel she was starting to sweat, and her eyes were a little wide. Nothing that couldn’t be dismissed as a slightly nervous horse, nothing to help Laurent stop the okton before it began. And even if he could, even if he convinced the stablemaster that the Crown Prince’s mare had been drugged, stopping this attempt so obviously would only make Kastor a more careful and deadly foe.

No, Laurent had to play this out, and he had to ensure Damianos made it out of the okton alive without it looking like anything more than luck and sportsmanship in Kastor’s eyes. He hoped the switching of horses had been abrupt enough that Kastor hadn’t had the chance to advise his accomplice to change their plan or nix it altogether.

Trumpets rang - the okton was ready to begin. The competitors all mounted up and formed a line in the order they would ride.

Laurent rode forward, spurring Damianos’ mare, and he leaned down to take one of the blue-tipped spears, hefting it in his hand for a second before letting it fly. He didn’t pause to ensure it had hit its mark before swiftly turning the mare and bending to pick up his second spear to complete the first circuit, although the approving roar of the crowd led him to believe he had. Philotas was behind him, then the soldier who had been victorious at the standing spear, then Lykourgos using Kastor’s white-tipped spears, and finally Damianos, using red.

The second, third and fourth circuits of the okton went by in a blur - blue and red tipped spears hitting every mark, with Philotas’ black ones a close second - and then Laurent felt Damianos’ mare begin to falter. He was a strong enough rider, and ahead enough that he could compensate for at least one more circuit, perhaps two, but not much more, not while he was also keeping a close watch on Damianos and Lykourgos.

As he led everyone into the seventh circuit, Damianos ahead of him and Philotas close behind, in a second of tense clarity, Laurent noticed Lykourgos move oddly in his saddle and heft his spear for a throw. It was too early for him to throw, the spear would hit Damianos straight in the chest as he turned rather than the target behind him.

The crowd screamed in horror as the white-tipped spear moved inexorably towards the crown prince, and, without a second’s hesitation, Laurent spurred the weary, sweating mare forward in one more push and threw himself from his horse to Damianos’, certain at least Cuivre could handle the sudden weight. “Lean down,” Laurent ordered Damen, at the same time as he pushed him down with all his strength and gathered Cuivre’s reins from his hands to make the horse side-step the spear.

And just like that - in a split-second, in an eternity - it was over. The white-tipped spear fell harmlessly to the ground, and Laurent spurred Cuivre forward with his knees as he leaned down for a blue-tipped spear, one arm still around Damianos’ waist. When he threw it straight at the target, Damianos began to laugh: a loud, incredulous and joyful sound, and the crowd roared back to life.

The rest of the competitors had stopped riding, and Lykourgos was doing a good enough job pretending to be horrified by the accident that had almost taken the prince’s life while Philotas loudly berated him.

Laurent made a show of counting the spears embedded in the two targets - seven blue, six red, five black and just three green and white - before saying, “I believe I win.”

Damianos laughed even louder, his body vibrating against Laurent’s chest.

“Do you need anything else, Your Highness?” Radel asked, after placing the pail of warm water scented with rose petals on one of the taller tables in the room.

Laurent had retreated to his quarters after the okton, needing time to collect himself, think more on the precipitous events of the day, and, of course, ensure he was presentable for the feast.

“No, Radel, that will be all. I shall dress myself.”

With a short bow, Radel retreated and left Laurent alone. He walked slowly to the table where the pail of water was waiting and began unlacing his sleeves almost absently. His hands shook slightly - a leftover reaction from the fear and commotion of the okton - and he made an impatient fist before shaking them out and going back to picking at the laces.

As he slowly undressed, he brought to mind the aftermath of the okton, particularly Kastor’s unconvincing concern over Damianos’ close call. The bastard had played the part outwardly, but he couldn’t deceive a Veretian, and his eyes had been cold, and a little panicked. Clearly, he had expected his foolhardy scheme to succeed with ease, never mind the fact that so much had depended on chance. Well, at least it meant he would prove easier to deal with than Laurent’s uncle.

Laurent was running a wet cloth through his neck, undershirt open, when there was an perfunctory knock at his door and Damianos walked in.

He was still in the chiton he wore to compete in the games, laurel leaves on his hair, and before Laurent could say a word, Damianos strode towards him and put a careful hand on the side of his face, bending down slowly until his lips were inches apart from Laurent's. He paused for a second - an eternity - and then kissed Laurent deeply.

It was like nothing Laurent had experienced. He had kissed one or two pets in Vere, but it had been brief, almost artificial, and somewhat distasteful. Damianos kissed him like Laurent was the answer to every question he had, like he was the very air he needed to breathe, and Laurent… Laurent was swept away in the sensation like nothing had ever taken him before, his mind empty of everything but Damianos, his hands, his tongue.

After a moment, Damianos pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against Laurent’s, brown eyes gone dark with desire and something more, something Laurent could hardly put a name to.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Damianos said softly.

“I hope you don’t thank everyone for whatever service they give the crown in quite the same way,” Laurent said, the intensity in Damianos’ gaze making him nervous.

Damianos shook his head slightly, rueful and reluctantly amused. “Laurent…”

Laurent swallowed. “You’re welcome. I - it was no more than you would have done for me.”

Damianos ran a soft hand through Laurent’s hair, still disheveled after the games. “That’s true. And yet, you, Laurent of Vere, seem to specialize in achieving impossible feats to such a degree that I can do nothing but stand amazed and utterly grateful that you stumbled into a clearing in the middle of a battle all those years ago.”

Laurent glanced down, focusing on Damianos’ lion-headed pins for a moment. “Is… is this just gratefulness, then?”

Damianos placed a hand on Laurent’s chin, raising his face to meet his eyes again.

“Laurent. You must know. Surely, you must know,” he said, an overwhelming fondness in his voice. “I - I have been utterly captivated by you, since the moment you rode into the palace gates. I have been a true friend to you since you were thirteen, as I vowed to be, but after these months we’ve spent together here in Akielos... I would have more than your friendship.”

Laurent, for once in his life, could find no words to aid him. So he leant up and kissed Damianos again, trusting him to understand.

Eventually, they paused for breath, and Laurent remembered there was a feast waiting for them.

“We must attend the feast, Damianos.”

“Are you certain we can’t stay here?” Damianos asked, sounding rather too serious in his suggestion.

Laurent gave him a quelling glance. “You are the Crown Prince. Of course we can’t. In any event, we need to keep an eye on Kastor.”

The playfulness in Damianos’ eyes and general demeanor dimmed at that. “I was afraid it was Kastor, when you told me to switch horses.”

“Oh?”

“It fit too well,” Damianos replied, shrugging. “Perhaps if I had never been to Arles, if I had never seen what someone who called themselves family could do to his own nephews… But I know well enough, now, that blood is no guarantee. And my brother’s lust for the throne has grown to the point of obviousness, even to me.”

“Not to your father?” Laurent asked carefully.

“My father… my father loved Kastor’s mother. Loved her enough that nothing but irrevocable proof could ever convince him that her son could be a traitor.”

Laurent took Damen’s hands in his own. “Then irrevocable proof we shall find.”

At that, Damianos smiled, a small, private thing, that Laurent had only ever seen him direct towards him, and raised Laurent’s hands to his mouth for a soft kiss.

“Together, of course we shall.”

The feast passed in something of a blur, despite Laurent’s best efforts. He did his level best to track Kastor’s movements throughout the night, as well as those of Lykourgos of Aegina and the rest of their friends and fairly inept co-conspirators, but memories of the moment he’d just shared with Damianos, and the man himself, interrupted him fairly often.

He was somewhat appeased by the fact that Orlant and Lazar remained vigilant - Laurent had asked them to continue to keep Kastor in their sights after the events of the okton - and Nikandros seemed to be more alert than ever.

At some point during the feast, while Damianos conversed with King Theomedes and Makedon, Nikandros approached Laurent.

“So, little shadow - what exactly happened today at the okton?” he asked quietly.

Although Nikandros had kept his voice low, Laurent looked around them carefully, pretending to look for a servant to call for more water to ensure their words would pass unnoticed.

“I think we should discuss it later, at a more private location. Could you make your way to my quarters unobserved tonight, perhaps in two hours hence?”

Nikandros raised an eyebrow, but, to his credit, merely nodded before raising his goblet to toast with Laurent, as if that had been the intention in approaching him all along. Philotas joined them soon after, and they whiled away some time discussing the finer points of Akielon and Veretian swordcraft and the benefits and drawbacks of more comprehensive armor in battle.

Enough of the revelers had dispersed, and the remaining ones were preoccupied enough, that Laurent was able to leave the hall discreetly, although not before asking Orlant to pass on a message to Damianos.

Once in his room, Radel helped him take off his lightweight midnight blue jacket and, after some consideration on Laurent’s part, assisted him in putting on a white chiton.

“Is there anything else you require, your Highness?”

“Please bring a plate of cheese and some fruit, and perhaps some of the honey wine, and water. But ensure nobody takes notice, Radel - I have retired to bed and nobody shall be coming to my quarters, as far as anyone need be concerned.”

“Of course.”

After Radel had complied with his request, Laurent poured himself a small measure of honey wine - an indulgence the strangeness and magic of the day called for, he felt - and stepped out to the balcony, the sight and sound of the waves hypnotic in the darkness of the night.

“Laurent?” a soft voice called. “Orlant told me you expected me?” It was Damianos.

Laurent stepped back slightly into the room. “Yes, we have some further things to discuss.”

Damianos was already by the small table, reaching for one of the gobles to pour himself water, and he glanced up at Laurent’s voice. Immediately after catching sight of him, he fumbled the goblet he was grasping and dropped it on the floor.

“Is everything alright, Damianos? If you drank too much at the feast, we could talk tomorrow.”

Damianos crouched down to pick up the goblet and stood up quickly. “No, no, I’m fine, of course we can talk.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow at that - Damianos looked somewhat flushed - but shrugged and led the way back to the balcony. Once they were outside, Damianos immediately leaned down to kiss him, a careful hand on the side of his face.

Laurent pulled back slightly after a moment of kissing him back. “Not this kind of talk, Damen - Nikandros is coming in a few minutes, we must discuss what to do about Kastor…”

“Yes, of course,” Damianos agreed, and then kissed him again.

Laurent possessed famed self-control, but he dared anyone to resist Damianos from Akielos, really, so he let himself give in fully and kissed Damianos back, pressing against him ever so slightly.

He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, when the sound of someone clearing their throat penetrated through the haze.

Laurent leaned back to see Nikandros looking at them, seemingly amused and embarrassed at once.

“It’s not that I don’t support this… development,” he told them, with a wave of his hand, “but perhaps you could do this after we’ve discussed Kastor?”

Laurent and Damianos stepped back from each other, and Laurent could feel his cheeks warming. He despised blushing. “Certainly, Nikandros. Uh - would you care for some water, or wine?”

While Nikandros poured himself wine and prepared a small plate with cheese and fruit from the selection that had been brought up by Radel, Damianos leaned close to Laurent’s side. “I’m sorry about that; I know you hate being caught off-guard. I just - I saw you, and I couldn’t resist.”

Laurent looked at him for a moment before answering - his slightly off-kilter chiton, the riot of dark curls, his generous mouth and beautiful brown eyes filled with the warmth they’d almost always had for Laurent, as well as something more new and thrilling, encompassing. “I could hardly resist you, either, Damianos. There is nothing to forgive.”

Damianos’ smile at that was bright enough to rival the sun, and it didn’t dim even after Nikandros joined them in the balcony once again with an exasperated shake of his head.

“So, little shadow - you promised you’d explain what happened at the okton today,” Nikandros said.

Laurent sighed. “I do wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“If wishes were horses…”

“Yes, yes, very clever, Akielon,” Laurent said, switching to Veretian. He had asked Orlant and Lazar to ensure nobody was nearby, but it always paid to be cautious. “As to your question - I don’t think any of us have failed to notice that Kastor’s general discontent with his lot in life has moved from the somewhat embarrassing and reprehensible to the strident. And today, at the okton, his discontent turned murderous.”

For all that Damianos had correctly guessed what had happened earlier in the day, Laurent’s words made him press his lips together, sorrow and anger in his eyes. For a moment, Laurent imagined what he would feel like if Auguste had betrayed him and planned for his murder, and tried to soften his words.

“Since I arrived, I noticed Kastor become more and more overt in his displeasure at not being heir to the throne. That would have been nothing more than an annoyance, if he had not gathered about him a group of malcontents from the various provinces who, for different reasons, are also displeased with their lot in life and the Akielon royal family.”

“Such as Lykourgos of Aegina,” Nikandros supplied.

“Precisely,” Laurent nodded. “For the last two months they hadn’t done much besides complain rather loudly during feasts and spread a few rumors.”

“What rumors?” Damianos asked, frowning.

“Don’t be concerned - they were silly, easily traced and more easily suppressed. Orlant, Lazar, Radel, and Paschal all speak more than passable Akielon,” Laurent replied.

“You’d think that I’d have learned to never be surprised when it comes to you,” Nikandros mused. “Please, do go on”

“I truly hadn’t thought Kastor had devised anything concrete outside of his general malingering, but his attitude and actions this morning, at the beginning of the games concerned me,” Laurent continued. “Openly refusing to sit next to King Theomedes, all but declaring his own faction… I imagined something could happen. And when it all came together - a place in the okton against the Crown Prince for all the winners, someone tampering with Damianos’ mare, Kastor being replaced with his inexperienced sycophant - I thought letting it play out and keeping Damianos safe would be the best course of action.”

“Keeping me safe at your own peril,” Damianos interjected quietly.

“Well. It’s nothing you haven’t done for me,” Laurent told him, the memory of Marlas flashing through his mind, past and present colliding.

“But why let it play out?” Nikandros asked, forcing Laurent’s attention away from Damianos. “If you’d told King Theomedes your suspicions, he might have stopped the okton. You have earned his respect these past months, Laurent - you know he would have taken you at your word.”

“Even if my word was accusing a much beloved son, without more proof than one of my servants seeing someone enter the stables?” Laurent asked, eyebrows raised. “No king would accept it, and he would be foolish to, respect or not.”

“I agree with Laurent,” Damianos interjected, echoing what he’d told him before the feast. “Nikandros, you know how my father loves Kastor - loves him as his firstborn, and as the son of his beloved Hypermenestra. Hearsay could never be enough to condemn him.”

Nikandros took a deep drink of wine. “Yes, I know. He is a truly great king, but in this case, love blinds him.”

“Doesn’t it blind us all, sometimes?” Laurent chuckled bitterly, feeling the old, buried pain of his uncle’s betrayal suffer again. A warm hand covered his, and he glanced up, surprised, to see Damianos had drifted even closer to him, silently giving support as much as he himself seemed to need it.

“It was still very risky, little shadow. Brave, but risky,” Nikandros said eventually. “You could have at least told Damianos or me - we might have come up with a plan to stop it aside from accusing Kastor.”

Laurent shook his head. “Kastor would have suspected we were onto him if we’d stopped it entirely - you know how people talk, he would’ve found out somehow the okton was cancelled at our behest, and it would have spooked him and made him more cautious in his planning. No - Kastor needed to be lulled into a false sense of safety.”

“That is true,” Nikandros agreed. “A man who thinks he’s safe will always make one more mistake than one who’s scared of discovery.”

“And how do we draw him out enough to make a mistake nobody can miss?” Damianos asked.

Laurent glanced out into the ocean for a moment. He had been mulling over that precise problem for a few weeks now, and he kept coming back to one solution. “Well, I fear we need to expand our circle of conspirators to one more person - someone who can get under Kastor’s guard and find the proof we need.”

“Who?”

Laurent bit his lip. “The Lady Jokaste.”

“Jokaste? Are you mad?” exclaimed Nikandros. “She tried to hook Damianos and after she figured he was too infatuated with you to take the bait, went straight to Kastor.”

Damianos blushed. “Infatuated? I - I mean-”

“Precisely,” Laurent interrupted. “She’s ambitious, and clever, and desperate to have her opinion matter.” He swallowed. “I know what it’s like to be thought of as nothing but a pretty bit of fluff. Trust me - if we offer her a place in court that depends on her brains and not on who she beds, she’ll take it, and help us.”

Nikandros and Damianos were silent for a moment, looking at him, and Laurent drank deep from his honey wine, cursing the fact that his association with Akielons had made him far more honest than he preferred.

“Well. Of course we trust you, Laurent,” Nikandros said, finally. “If you think Lady Jokaste is the way… I suppose we’ll have to ensure Damen grovels properly.”

“Hey!” Damianos said, frowning.

“Damianos, you left her talking to herself in the midst of a feast, while everyone was watching,” Laurent reminded him. “Of course you have to grovel. And, perhaps, hint at a position as Akielon Ambassador to the Vaskian Empire - someone of her ruthlessness could surely deal with the Empress and the Princesses.”

Nikandros barked out a laugh. “You really do think of everything, Laurent. Sharpest pretty bit of fluff I’ve ever encountered.”

“Or ever will encounter,” Damianos rejoined, squeezing Laurent’s hand just slightly and giving him a fond look.

“You are both ridiculous,” was all Laurent said, rolling his eyes at the laughter.

Really, Akielons. You’d never think they were in the middle of plotting their way out of possible regicide.

Turning the Lady Jokaste to their side required some careful maneuvering. On Laurent’s advice, Nikandros made the first overture, considering that he would be the least likely to be turned away, and that when he chose to, the man could be damnably charming.

As Laurent had expected, she was suitably glad to be around a man who was in fact interested in her opinions and conversation rather than just the cut of her gown over her shoulder or her eyes, so it wasn’t too long until Nikandros had established enough of a rapport to re-introduce Damianos to her without anyone having wine thrown in their face.

“So, I should just apologize? But, Laurent, I honestly did not think she was flirting with me, I didn’t see-”

“No, you were seeing Laurent, as you always do when he’s in the same room, Damen,” Nikandros interrupted, not unkindly. “Which I think is precisely the point. You left her mid-sentence because the Prince of Vere was laughing prettily.”

Refusing to engage in the relative merits of his laughter, Laurent placed a hand on Damianos’ shoulder. “We know it wasn’t ill-intentioned, but you can imagine how embarrassed she felt. The court can be ruthless, especially to women, Damianos. So, yes, you should apologize, and perhaps humble yourself somewhat. And after… simply talk to her. As you would Nikandros, or Auguste, or any person you respect.”

“Not as I talk to you?” Damianos asked, smiling slightly.

“I would prefer not, if it’s all the same to you,” Laurent replied.

Damianos smiled wider, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Ultimately, Damianos apologized to Jokaste’s satisfaction, and Nikandros and he were able to delicately request her assistance. Laurent held back, for a time, since he knew that, whatever his intentions, Jokaste viewed him with suspicion and with some natural resentment borne of Damianos’ faux pas.

However, it wasn’t too long until he ran into her in the library and engaged her in a discussion regarding the rather fascinating history of an ancient Akielon poetess.

“I haven’t yet read her poem to Anactoria,” Laurent was telling her. “I’d be extremely grateful if you’d lend me a copy of it.”

When he glanced up, after a moment’s silence, it was to find Jokaste looking at him intently.

“Is everything alright?”

“This - asking me for help, asking for my opinion… you all truly mean it?”

Laurent looked back at her frankly. “Yes, my Lady. I know I’m a stranger, a foreigner, and one that has already - if unintentionally - proven vexing to you. But you can trust Damianos, for never have I known a nobler man, and Nikandros who has never seen wrong but tried to right it. As for me - trust that I know what it is like, to be overlooked and dismissed as nothing but a pretty face, or a pair of luminous eyes. Trust I wouldn’t wish it on anyone as intelligent as you.”

At that, Jokaste nodded once, before turning her attention back to the scroll of poetry they had been discussing.

Damianos found them in the library later that day, and after Jokaste had taken her leave, turned to Laurent.

“Well, it seems you have finally charmed her as well. I wager it was somewhat mystifying for you, that it took so long.”

Laurent frowned. “No, it wasn’t. I rarely make myself pleasant to people unless I happen to like them, and even then, Auguste assures me I can be something of a trial.”

“Truly?” Damianos asked, clearly delighted. “Well. For my part, I assure you that you’re a trial I would gladly go through every day.”

Laurent felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and glanced away. “It is evident that you are the charmer between the two of us, Damianos.”

A hand pressing upon his made him glance back, to see Damianos leaning closer, a smaller, softer smile on his face. “I’m afraid we’ll have to disagree on that, my Prince.”

That was something else Laurent had never expected. Damianos was, for lack of a better word, wooing him.

It wasn’t that it had never happened to him before - ever since he’d turned sixteen, various noblemen and women had paid court to him, sent him flowers or commissioned poems; the younger brother of the Patran king had even sent him a horse. But it had never felt as if they were paying court to him, but rather to some idea of a blond, blue-eyed and remote beauty, too perfect to be substantial.

After the night on the balcony, Damianos had in fact sent him flowers, but they were fragrant white lilies, for which Laurent had expressed a particular love months ago, as they were touring one of the markets in the outskirts of Ios. Instead of a poem about how blue his eyes were, he received a rare tome detailing the history of commerce between Vask and Patras, and instead of gifting him a horse, Damianos kept challenging him to horse races and never rode anything but his hardest, making Laurent’s victories all the sweeter.

Unexpected, yes. But not unwelcome.

“We have him.”

It was only a whisper, as Jokaste walked past Laurent and Damianos on her way to where Kastor was holding court in the Great Hall after dinner, but it was enough to make Laurent’s heart start racing and Damianos start forward, as if he meant to follow Jokaste and ask her exactly what he meant.

Before their entire intrigue was blown to pieces, Laurent stepped smoothly next to Damianos and redirected him toward one of the balconies with a hand on his arm, saying, “Yes, thank you, Damianos - I do think I could use some air.”

It was enough for Damianos to remember himself, and he gave Laurent a grateful nod before stepping outside, and taking a deep breath of the cool night air. He placed his hands on the edge of the balcony, and Laurent could see they were shaking ever so slightly.

“What do we do now?” he asked, using the Vaskian dialect Laurent had taught him long ago, when they were trying to discover Auguste’s would-be assassin. “Should I speak to my father? Or accuse Kastor outright?”

Laurent shook his head. “No - we’re not even certain of what exactly Jokaste has. She will, no doubt, find a way to pass the information to us in a while, and we can act tomorrow.”

“You’re right, of course. Even if I accused Kastor right now, he’s surrounded by those sycophants - it would certainly turn into an unnecessary fight.” Damianos sighed. “It’s just… difficult. To keep waiting. To keep pretending.”

Laurent placed one of his hands on top of Damianos’ on edge of the balcony. “I know. But come - let’s go back inside, alert Nikandros. Orlant and Lazar know to be on the lookout for any message from Jokaste.”

As they walked back into the Great Hall, Laurent was relieved to see that nobody had taken much notice of their brief absence, except for Makendon, who sent an unsubtle wink their way. Well, better for everyone to imagine Laurent couldn’t resist pulling Damianos away for a kiss - something that probably suited their idea of what shameless Veretians were like - than to think for a moment they were about to accuse the King’s bastard firstborn of treason.

Nikandros approached them with two goblets - watered down wine for Damianos and just water for Laurent - and asked, “Everything alright, Exalted?”

“Yes, of course,” Damianos replied, putting on an admirable show of a smile. “Laurent simply needed some fresh air.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the air of the hall suddenly closed in on me,” Laurent said. “I’m afraid I may have even accidentally bumped into the Lady Jokaste - I do hope she won’t be angry,” he elaborated, trusting Nikandros would understand the hint.

Nikandros’ brow furrowed every so slightly before clearing. “I’m certain she won’t be, but I’ll be happy to pass along your apologies if you feel you need to retire.”

“Thank you, that would be most kind,” Laurent replied. “Damianos - you should sit by your father a while. I’ll ask Orlant to escort me to my room.”

Damianos looked almost ready to object, but Laurent silenced him with a glance. The last thing they needed was for Kastor to attempt something against King Theomedes tonight, before they could act, and Laurent, Damianos and Nikandros all vanishing from the room at the same time as Jokaste did would be sure to raise some suspicion.

Laurent stepped out of the hall after signaling Orlant, nodding goodnight to the people he met on the way back to his quarters. Just before turning the corner, he glanced back briefly to see Damianos sitting next to his father, Nikandros and Lazar standing behind him.

Once inside his room, Laurent took off his silk shirt and trousers and put on the simple white chiton he’d taken to wearing at night as a concession to the rising summer heat before padding outside to his small balcony. He filled a goblet with water and drank deep, looking out at the dark ocean, churning to and fro in the night.

He was lost in thought, mind wandering between the past few weeks spent between worry and pleasure, back into the years when Damianos had been with him in Vere, and back further still, when he’d been young and foolish, trusting that everyone around him meant him well, that his mother and father would live to see him grow old and his brother married, that his uncle loved him. Strange, all the things that had turned out to be untrue. Stranger still, that those few certainties he’d had as a child - family love each other without reserve, and Akielons are “not our friends, Laurent” - had somehow been turned on their heads. Family loved each other until they didn’t, and Akielons could be the most trusted allies one could wish for.

He could hardly believe they were finally close to an end, that if all went well, Damianos would finally be safe. It was a strange feeling, to be so consumed by the thought of someone else’s safety, someone who wasn’t Auguste. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, either, and yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. If ever there was a man worthy of sleepless nights, it was Damianos of Akielos.

“Prince Laurent?” Orlant interrupted his reverie, holding a covered tray in his hands.

“Yes, Orlant?”

“The Lady Jokaste sends her compliments. Her attendant tells me she noticed you took ill during the feast, so she sends a few choice delicacies for you.”

“Did she now? How thoughtful of her,” Laurent said, carefully taking the tray in his hands and placing it on one of the tables.

Underneath the delicate cloth covering he found a plate with soft cheese, Akielon bread, and a sheaf of papers tied together. Ignoring the food, Laurent pulled the tie to unfurl the papers, and started to read.

They were letters, correspondence between Kastor and Menelaus of Aegina, a minor noble with some holdings close to the border and, of course, Lykourgos’ father. And while some of the earlier letters could have been explained away - Kastor requesting information on the Patran border from a loyal subject for military purposes, perhaps - the bastard hadn’t been clever or patient enough to hide his greed and discontent. Three letters in, Laurent found the first overt references to a change in the Akielon throne, and by the fifth there was explicit talk of cold-blooded regicide and an eventual alliance with Patras brokered by Menelaus.

It was everything they needed, but it couldn’t come from Laurent’s hands. After a moment’s thought, he sat down to write a short note to Jokaste in the Vaskian royal language they had begun practicing together - she had to be completely fluent if she was to be an Ambassador - and tied the letters back together.

“Orlant - please take back this tray to the Lady Jokaste, with my most sincere thanks for her thoughtfulness,” he said, putting his note inside and covering everything again.

“Of course, Prince Laurent.”

“And Orlant? Do ensure that nobody but her receives the tray, and that you aren’t seen by any of our less welcoming Akielon compatriots.”

That done, Laurent walked back outside to the balcony, knowing he would end up greeting the sun. He’d sleep tomorrow, once it was all over. Once Damianos was safe.

The next morning, under Laurent’s advice, Damianos asked his father to call for a meeting with all the kyroi, or their representatives in the capital.

“Are you sure a full meeting of the kyroi is the best idea, Laurent?” Nikandros asked, sitting down beside him. “If the evidence isn’t enough… there is no way for King Theomedes to sweep this under the rug. If the kyroi and he decide Damen is lying, it will be his doom.”

Laurent nodded in greeting to some of the kyroi and nobles walking into the Throne Room, and briefly met Jokaste’s eyes from where she sat across the room.

“Do not trouble yourself, Nikandros. The evidence will be enough. More than enough.”

Eventually, all the nobles were gathered and the guards announced the entrance of King Theomedes and his sons. Everyone stood and bowed respectfully while the King and princes made their way to the front of the room, and Laurent couldn’t help glancing up when Damianos walked past him. He wore a simple white chiton and red cloak, and yet seemed all the more kingly for it - a leader of men, decisive, strong. There was no fear or hesitation on his countenance, even though Laurent knew how nervous he must be. He seemed strong enough to withstand the very breaking of the earth, and remain standing.

He glanced at Laurent once, as he took his seat beside the King, and Laurent nodded at him, ever so slightly.

“I thank you all for coming,” King Theomedes greeted them. “We are gathered at the request of my son, Crown Prince Damianos, who has something of great importance to communicate to us, as I understand it. Son?”

“Thank you, father. Thank you, honored kyroi and representatives of the noble houses of Akielos,” Damianos began. “I have requested this meeting because I must denounce one of our number, with the heaviest of hearts.” Several shocked gasps and exclamations made Damianos pause for a moment, before continuing. “I have discovered treason at the very heart of our kingdom, a plot to overthrow the King and place our noble nation in disarray.”

Laurent saw Meniados, Kassandros, and several of the other kyroi mutter angrily, evidently incensed that somebody had dared threaten the life of Theomedes. As for Kastor, he seemed unconcerned.

“This is a strong accusation indeed, son,” King Theomedes said. “Who is guilty of such a thing?”

Damianos took a deep breath. “Kastor, son of Hypermenestra.”

At this, there were outright shouts, which King Theomedes waved silent with an impatient slash of his hand. “You accuse your brother, Kastor. My firstborn.”

“I do, father.”

“On what grounds, Damianos?” King Theomedes asked, voice soft and dangerous all at once, a lion waiting to strike.

Beside Laurent, Nikandros shifted nervously. They had stood by Damianos the entire way, but he had to face the disbelief and anger of the king alone.

“Father, over the last few years, Kastor has become dissatisfied with his place in the kingdom. This will not be a surprise to anybody who has noticed how he turned from a gregarious, welcoming youth to a sullen man, easy to anger and jealous of making his place known.”

Several of those gathered in the hall nodded in agreement; Kastor raised an eyebrow, seemingly bored.

“Despite the love held for him by my father and by myself, Kastor believed he deserved more - that he deserved to be heir, and rule Akielos,” Damianos continued. “And so he gathered about him a group of men and women who were also dissatisfied with their lot in life, whether because they were minor heirs or poor soldiers, and began to plan ways in which to clear his way to the throne.”

Some of Kastor’s supporters seemed to shrink under the various gazes thrown their way, while others held their heads high, defiant.

“A few weeks ago, grown bold, Kastor made his first attempt. During the commemoration games for the first battle won by King Euandros, he arranged with Lykourgos and other accomplices to weaken my horse and ensure I met with a deadly accident during the okton. Had it not been for the swift intervention of Prince Laurent of Vere, I would have been killed by Lykourgos’ spear,” Damianos said, pausing for a moment while some of the nobles muttered and gasped, remembering how very close the Crown Prince had come to death. “Although he was thwarted, his planning continued. And I denounce him now because I know that Kastor, brother of mine though he may be, will stop at nothing until he has the throne.”

There was a sepulchral silence for a moment, nothing could be heard but the faintest sound of the ocean crashing into the shore. And then Kastor began clapping, mockingly.

“A fine tale, brother of mine,” he said, a savage grin on his face. “Intrigue, betrayal, treason - even a daring rescue by your would-be catamite, the Prince of Vere.”

At the insult, Damianos - who had denounced his brother with perfect calm, despite the pain of the words - went red with anger, almost rising from his seat.

“Be easy, Damianos,” Laurent called. “I have been called worse, and by better men than he.”

Damianos nodded jerkily, easing back into his throne, and Kastor threw a hateful glance at Laurent who, it had to be said, had received much more terrifying glances from young Nicaise back home.

“A fine tale, yes,” Kastor continued. “But nothing more than that. I see no proof of what you’ve accused me of.”

“Have you any proof, Damianos?” King Theomedes asked.

“I do,” Jokaste said, rising from her seat. “I have intercepted correspondence between Kastor and Menelaus of Aegina, plotting against the throne of Akielos. Here it is, Exalted,” she continued, presenting the sheaf of papers to King Theomedes.

Kastor had gone deathly pale, as King Theomedes read the letters. “Father - no, you have to believe me. They’re some sort of trick, they’re a lie. I love you, Father…”

Theomedes clenched the letters in his fist. “It is a very peculiar love you have for me, son. I think I would rather your hatred - it would be more honest. Guards - arrest him.”

As the guards moved to arrest Kastor, he tried to shake them off, yelling. “No! I am your son! I am Kastor, firstborn of Theomedes, Prince and Commander of the Akielon Army!”

“You were Prince and Commander,” Theomedes rejoined. “The dead have no titles.”

Kastor stopped moving, as if wounded. Then he raised his head and spoke to Damianos. “Damen, brother. I taught you how to hold a sword; I gave you your first drink. Will you not intercede for me? Will you let me be condemned?”

“I loved you, Kastor. Like a brother, like a friend, like a second in command. I would have ensured you were second only to myself once I was King, but you had not the courage to be loyal, only the conviction of your own vanity. And so I condemn you, for the good of Akielos,” Damianos said.

With that, four guards dragged Kastor from the room, while the remaining ones surrounded Kastor’s supporters.

It was done.

“Prince Damianos - today you have done a great service to your kingdom. I thank you, my son,” Theomedes said, rising from his throne. “You will be a true king of Akielos, when it is time.”

Damianos bowed to his father, followed by the kyroi and the nobles, and King Theomedes made his way out of the throne room, looking like a man who had aged years in the span of minutes. The pain of Kastor’s betrayal would be hard to get over.

Some of the nobles left, while others remained in the throne room, discussing everything that had happened. Laurent glanced around, trying to find Damianos in the crowd, until he glimpsed a familiar silhouette escaping to one of the balconies.

“Go to him,” Nikandros said quietly, beside him. “I’ll hold off the masses.”

Laurent nodded, and followed Damianos’ path, until he found him, hands on the balustrade, looking out into the churning ocean.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Damianos glanced down for a moment before meeting Laurent’s eyes. “No. I should feel vindicated, I should feel triumphant, even, and yet all I can feel is sadness. Am I to always feel this betrayal, over and over? Will it ever feel… done?”

Laurent stepped closer, close enough that his arm brushed Damianos’. “It might, eventually. But Damen - you loved him. You love him still, even as you hate him, because he’s your brother. A betrayal like this, a knife thrust in the back from one in whom you placed your trust and your love… I fear it will haunt you for a time yet. And that is no bad thing; it means you have a good heart.”

Damianos nodded, and reached out to place a gentle hand on the side of Laurent’s face. “You have a good heart, also, Laurent of Vere. Try as you might to pretend it’s made of ice.”

Laurent swallowed. “Well. Let’s keep that between the two of us.”

At that, Damianos smiled slightly, before leaning in to kiss Laurent, a deep, burning kiss.

All too soon, Laurent’s year in Akielos had come to an end, and it was time for him to return to Vere.

“Prince Laurent of Vere, it has been our great pleasure and privilege to host you in Ios for this past year,” King Theomedes declared. “We hope that you found your time in Akielos pleasurable, and, more than that, we hope to see you come back, sooner rather than later.”

The cheer that rose from the various people gathered in the Great Hall at the King’s words was loud, warming Laurent’s heart almost unwillingly. It was a sincere and open sign of regard he wasn’t precisely used to; in Vere, he was content to stand behind his brother, standing in the shadows the better to protect him, and praise was deflected elsewhere.

Various kyroi, noblemen and women, and warriors made their way to the royal dais throughout the night, paying their respects and saying goodbye. Philotas, whom Laurent had beaten at the sword, presented him with a ceremonial Akielon blade, forged in the old ways in the fires of the island of Isthima. Nikandros gave him a beautiful tapestry made in Kesus which depicted a map of Akielos and Vere. Makedon, for his part, toasted him with griva from his lands, and the drink was foul enough Laurent wished he’d abstained, really, but he drank deeply with forbearance.

At some point in the night, while Laurent discussed some of the finer points of Akielon shipbuilding with one of the admirals, the Lady Jokaste approached them and requested a word, making Theomedon withdraw respectfully.

“Well, Prince Laurent, you are leaving us,” Jokaste said, placing her delicate arm through Laurent’s and leading him toward one of the windows. “Before you parted, I wanted to thank you, for the advice you gave Prince Damianos. I - I would have been ruined and lost, all in the cause of a lesser man.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, my lady. As I told you before, it might have just as easily been me, had my life taken a different path.”

Jokaste nodded at that, and was silent for a moment, before asking, “Are you happy to be returning to your homeland?”

“I am eager to see my brother again, certainly, and to spend some time in my holdings, Laurent replied. “But I shall certainly miss Akielos.”

At that, Jokaste smiled. “Akielos will miss you, as well. You will leave behind a heartbroken palace, I’m sure. But worry not - it will also be a loyal one, waiting for your return.” It was said as a promise, almost.

Laurent glanced at her for a second, but her countenance betrayed nothing except honest regard. Well. It was certainly something, to have somebody such as her on his side. “I thank you, my Lady. I hope to return soon, and find myself welcome again.”

“Of course you shall be welcome, always,” a voice interjected.

Jokaste and Laurent turned to see Damianos standing close by, and he seemed almost abashed at their twin regard.

“Do forgive me for interrupting you, Laurent, my Lady. It is only - I wished to speak with Laurent, for a moment.”

Jokaste, graceful as ever, bowed slightly, and offered Laurent’s arm to Damianos. “Of course, Exalted. I leave the Prince of Vere in your care.”

“Laurent, will you walk with me to the gardens?” Damianos asked.

“Of course. Lead the way, Damianos.”

They left the Great Hall and made their way through the various wide hallways until they came upon one of the staircases that led to the palace gardens. The gardens were quiet and empty except for a few guards posted in the corners, with torches as the only illumination. The night-blooming jasmine and honeysuckle were fragrant, lending a surreal and intoxicating feel to the evening.

Damianos led Laurent almost to the center of the gardens, where a few fruit trees surrounded a carved bench, and gestured for Laurent to sit. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before sitting down as well, and he looked more discomfited than Laurent had ever seen him - he hadn’t betrayed a moment of nerves while posing as a Patran merchant or searching for proof of Govart’s treachery, not even while facing the okton or when denouncing his brother a few days past.

“Is everything alright, Damianos?”

“Yes,” Damianos answered quickly. “Yes, it’s only - I need to ask you something. And I’m not entirely sure how to.”

Laurent shifted closer and, slowly, reached out to place his hand on top of Damianos’. “Just ask.”

Damianos moved his hand so that their palms met each other, and squeezed Laurent’s hand between his. “I suppose it’s all I can do, yes.” He took a deep breath, and met Laurent’s eyes, his own a molten brown, shining with emotion. “Laurent - I told you, weeks ago, that you had captivated me from the moment you rode into Ios, and that the time spent with you here in Akielos turned the friendship I held in my heart for you into so much more. Your bravery, your intelligence, the sharpness of your mind and your beauty… they are intoxicating. They are more I could have ever dreamed of. And so today… today I know that you alone can be the companion of my life, that only with you by my side will my reign and my life itself have any meaning.”

Laurent felt his heart beating fast within his chest, felt his hands tremble. He could hardly take a breath. “Damen…” he whispered. “Do you - are you asking...?”

“Yes, Laurent,” Damen confirmed, a soft, tremulous smile on his beautiful face. “I am asking for your hand in marriage. I am asking you to be beside me henceforth. I know you must leave tomorrow, but I hope that when you return to Akielos, to me, it will be to stay for good.”

Laurent could hardly find words to encompass everything he was feeling - the love, the wonder, the fear. For once, he allowed emotion to overwhelm him, he dismissed the rational and practical considerations clamoring for attention in his mind, he let himself feel. And so he raised Damianos’ hand to his mouth, and kissed it softly, then leant closer and kissed Damianos himself.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

epilogue

Summer Palace, Akielos

The sunlight filtering in through the window suffused the room with a golden, lazy glow, and as Damen slowly woke from slumber, he felt it understandable that he had, for a moment, confused his waking reality with a cherished dream: Laurent was lying next to him, his pale, lithe body mostly uncovered, his hair tangled. Utterly relaxed and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Damen reached out a careful hand, daring to disturb the charming mirage, and carefully combed Laurent’s hair back from his face. At the touch, Laurent stirred slightly, and opened his eyes - a piercing and content blue.

“Good morning, Damen.”

Damen smiled. In a few days, they would exchange vows so that this would be how all his mornings started. “Good morning, my Prince.”

“Why do you smile so?” Laurent inquired, brow slightly furrowed.

Damen let his hand move from Laurent’s hair to cup his cheek. “Because I was thinking that, in a few days’ time, a ceremony will take place that will ensure I shall begin every morning by your side, and I can hardly believe my good fortune.”

“Well, it won’t be every morning, I don’t think - you will certainly have to leave to visit certain parts of Akielos on occasion, and I have agreed with Auguste that I will visit Vere at least once every two years,” Laurent replied, ever practical, running through the possibilities while staring at the ceiling. After turning back to meet Damen’s eyes, however, he blushed ever so slightly, and continued. “But I find myself more fortunate than I could have hoped, as well.”

Those words, the expression of emotion and vulnerability, from one who was so accustomed to being calm and remote, it made Damen feel like his heart was about to burst from his chest.

They had been somewhat overwhelmed by diplomatic requirements and ceremony over the past few months - negotiating the formal agreement of marriage, extending adequate invitations to noble families in Akielos, Vere, Patras and the Vaskian Empire, arranging details that ranged from the language the marriage would take place in (both) to what each of them would wear (Veretian clothing for the ceremony, Akielon chitons for the feast afterwards) - and the minutiae had almost drowned out the main reason that they had embarked upon this: Laurent by his side, and Damen by Laurent’s, to face enemies and delight in friends, to rule Akielos when the time came, and to stand together as they had for many years now, all starting from a vow made in a battlefield.

“I love you, Laurent,” he whispered, before moving closer and pressing a warm and reckless kiss to Laurent’s mouth.

Laurent kissed him back and pulled him closer, until Damen’s body was on top of his, the sheet between their bodies falling away. All too soon they were tangled limbs and heat and kiss after burning kiss, Damen caressing every inch of Laurent he could reach and Laurent gripping his neck, his hair, moaning sweetly and moving against Damen with abandon, until the frenzy gave way to climax.

Damen tried to stop himself from crushing Laurent, arms keeping his body from just falling on top of him with dizzy pleasure, but Laurent would have none of it, and pressed Damen close, as close as he could be, arms going around him.

“I love you, as well,” he finally replied, quiet and solemn.

At that, Damen smiled, and allowed himself to fall back into an easy slumber.