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The Prince of Vere had a face made for commands.

The implacable arched brows, the hard pressed mouth, and the eyes – blue as a clear winter sky and just as cold.

Under the relentless force of Laurent’s will, men folded. Or, they balked – and swiftly found that their own flinching had brought them into the same line they’d sought to avoid. Every time Laurent opened his mouth, Damen found himself wondering what impossibility it would call into being this time.

The men were discussing how it might take cock.

Damen took a gulp of wine. It tasted of swill, having not improved since he’d had it last. Still, swallowing that was better than having to answer if Laurent, well, swallowed.

“We’re not fucking,” said Damen.

Lazar booed.

Damen ignored him. This was all patently ridiculous. He almost wished they would go back to waxing poetic about thrice-blessed Auguste, before he was cut down by that bastard Damianos Prince-killer, no offense.

(‘None taken,’ Damen had said.)

Someone was expounding at length on how they’d have their prince in bed. As though Laurent would ever allow himself to be had by anyone, in any context. Even while playing pet at the inn in Nesson, Laurent had been the last thing from submissive. It was easier to imagine Laurent putting on a dress and dancing a polka than it was to imagine him performing that sort of servile servicing the men were fantasizing about, all palms and knees blooming red.

A golden head stalked into view, caught firelight. Laurent must be finished with the horse master then. Damen was already rising to his feet when the imperious chin jerked and turned away.

Jeers, like the heat of the wine, followed Damen all the way back to Laurent’s tent.

Inside, Laurent adopted his customarily insouciant seat at the table. In deference to the rising heat and tentative privacy, the collar of Laurent’s jacket was slightly loosened, hinting at the shadowy base of his throat. A sweet scent filled the air. Waxy peel fell away under deft fingers.

“You could try it,” Laurent said mildly. Plump orange slice disappeared into pink mouth. A hint of tongue.

“What?” said Damen.

“Ordering me to touch your cock. Although,” Laurent said, “I should warn you that the last man who tried that lost the use of his for many weeks after. It would be your loss of course — or, as some might suggest, mine?” He smiled, eyes glittering, like sheets of ice up north in Kempt, that trembled and creaked before falling and impaling all that stood below.

“No,” said Damen. “I’m alright, thank you.”

Laurent shrugged. There was always so much tension in him, until there wasn’t. “Suit yourself.” His eyes were shadowed dark blue. They turned away from Damen and did not return. Laurent set a new marker on the now familiar map. “Now,” he said. “To business.”

The next day saw them riding through several villages.

Dozens upon dozens of eyes followed Laurent, carrying all manner of emotion: joy, wonder, apprehension. Pride. Most of them narrowed at the sight of Damen, Akielon-dark but laced up and riding beside their golden prince. The enmity was clear, and though it was not unexpected, it pricked at him.

He fell back to ride amongst the men instead. Freed from the threat of being nailed in the head with a rotten vegetable (he could hardly duck and allow Laurent to get hit, amusing though the thought may be), he was now able to observe the villagers more fully.

Which was why after a while, Damen pulled up along Paschal who was closest, and asked, “Why do the commons refer to Prince Auguste as thrice blessed?” Remembering the night before: “Some of the men do as well, but none from the Prince’s Guard.”

There was a brief pause as Paschal brought his horse, who had shied at little, back into line. “Old peasant gossip,” Paschal said finally. “The late Queen asked to have the infant prince presented in the tradition of the Kemptian royal family. They say the fairies were so taken by him, they blessed him not once but thrice.”

“Oh.” Damen could see how that would spin into a favorite tale told around campfires. “Why haven’t I ever heard of it until now?”

Paschal’s horse tossed its head again. An insect, perhaps. Or, (and Damen felt a little badly for thinking so), it was just that Paschal had little opportunity to practice horsemanship, being a physician and all.

Paschal cleared his throat. “Relations with Kempt faltered around 20 years ago and then collapsed entirely after the Queen’s death. It hasn’t been considered wise to speak of anything related to Kempt for a long time now, especially amongst royalty.”

There was an air of warning in that last phrase. Damen, who was not looking for a fight or for Laurent to coalesce from sunlight and curse him into oblivion (much like one of those aforementioned Kemptian fairies), took note. Still, curiosity bubbled. He thought of Laurent in the great hall at Arles, wide-eyed and diabolically innocent. What had Laurent been blessed with then. Being a snake?

He said, “Did the Prince receive a blessing as well?”

There was a pause.

“No,” Paschal said slowly. “I would not say he was blessed with a gift at all.”

Something in his words tugged at Damen’s attention, but then a great commotion was arising up ahead. A commotion ahead, at the front of the train, where Damen had left Laurent to ride alone.

Damen kicked his horse into motion. He barely noticed Paschal following swiftly behind.

It was the ideal location for an ambush. They had discussed this, made preparations, but the child had gone unnoticed from their scouts, tucked amongst the trees.

At the opportune moment, (and Damen had to commend her tactical sense of timing) she had flown from the shelter of the forest and into the road. Crying, sobbing, begging.

“Stop!” she’d said. “Your Highness, wait! Wait!”

The prince stopped. The prince stopped the whole procession. The prince had fetched: two stools, cups, a pitcher of water, and oh, a plate of sweetmeats too, might as well. The prince sent for Paschal. Then he sat the girl down and calmly, evenly, asked her what she thought she was doing.

“He wouldn’t hurt a child, would he?” asked Aimeric.

“No.” That was Jord.

“First time for everything,” someone said.

Damen ignored them, shouldering a path to the front.

The child sat on her stool clutching a cup. She looked to be about 8 or 9. There were tear tracks running down her face, and mud. She looked as though she had run a mile through the woods, took a bad fall, and then threw herself into the path of about fifty horses. That was probably what had happened.

“Two skinned knees,” Laurent said when he saw Paschal. He sat opposite the girl, holding his own cup. A servant stood nearby, wetting a clean cloth. “And scraped up palms. A twisted ankle, possibly.”

If Paschal was surprised to receive such diagnoses from his prince, he did not show it. “Very well.” He took the offered cloth and knelt to clean the girl’s hands and knees.

To her credit, the child did not kick or cry out at the pain, even when Paschal unpacked his bag and began to poke and prod with his poultices and tinctures and salves. The set of her chin stayed stubborn.

Laurent regarded the girl. The girl looked defiantly back. Coolly, as though addressing any other opponent across the table, Laurent said, “What is your name?”

“Annette,” said the girl.

“And what brings you here today, Annette?”

“My brother.”

“And where is your brother?”

“On his way to Lord Gauthier’s court.”

A pause. Laurent set down his cup. He said, “Why is your brother on his way to Chagny?”

The girl’s resolute facade crumpled. She burst into tears.

The story, as it turned out, was simple, and unfortunately common. A man had come to collect rent. Winter had been hard, spring had come late — they couldn’t pay. The man’s eyebrows had scrunched, caterpillar-like, but his eyes had gleamed as he looked them over. They promised to pay back what was owed, with interest. The man refused. He had a different payment in mind.

“He said I was too young for bastards.” Confused, the girl said: “I don’t want to bed bastards.”

Damen felt sick.

The girl continued, “But Jean said no. And then the man asked why he’d want him instead of me, and Jean said that he’d heard that the Regent had set a new fashion, and the man said that Jean was rather pretty and that Lord Gauthier had just lost a pet, but if he brought Jean all the way to Chagny and couldn’t find a buyer then he’d have lost money on the journey and he still wouldn’t have our rent. And then Jean –“ and now the look on her face was truly terrible, “ – Jean knelt down and he—“

Her voice broke. Damen could not watch anymore. Laurent’s expression was horrible in its impassivity.

“I don’t know,” the girl said. She held her hands, small and dirt-streaked, over her face. “I don’t know. And then the man said good, and he took my brother, and he left.”

Damen wanted to leave. He wanted to go home, where a man that owed money in rent would be taken to the local magistrate, to have his debt traded for a schedule of labor, openly and honestly, not this, this—

Beside him, Jord jerked – an aborted grab at his sword.

The girl had thrown herself at Laurent. Grubby hands closed around porcelain fine skin. “Please,” she said. “You have to help me.”

The air froze. Everyone froze.

Beside Jord, Aimeric leaned forward with an almost hunger-like intensity.

Laurent had been the scorned shirker prince for years. Before that, he had been an overlooked second son, with a brother who outshone him in all things heroic. No one had ever looked at him like a savior before. No one had ever thought he could be one.

And no one, Damen was certain, had ever laid hands on Laurent like this without losing them, or worse.

The stupefied expression vanished like mist. Laurent’s eyes flicked over the gaping onlookers like a knife across a throat.

The crowd bled away expeditiously. Damen stayed. There was a tick in Laurent’s jaw.

Blue eyes limpid, he said, “I have to?”

The girl did not seem to sense the danger at hand. Still kneeling, still clutching Laurent’s hand, she begged, “You have to save him. Don’t let him be sold to some old man.” Wretchedly: “This is all my fault.”

“Annette,” said Laurent.

“Please, you have to,“ she broke off with a sob. “Bring him home,” she demanded. “Promise me.”

She really had no right to talk to Laurent like that. But she had every right. Annette was his subject. In less than a year, Laurent would be her king, and her troubles would become his sacred providence. They already were.

The words came ground out under the turn of a wheel. “I promise,” Laurent said.

Not long later, Huet returned, followed by a pimply young man on a draft horse.

Her brother’s friend, from what Damen could overhear. He seemed more concerned by the presence of the Prince and the Prince’s reaction to Annette’s plea than by any danger she had endured in the making of it. But he lifted the girl onto the horse with care, and she did not fight as they rode away in a plodding trot.

Damen wondered where her parents were. Why was it that the neighbor’s son was out looking for her, rather than family?

“Her father never returned from Marlas,” said Laurent. He had been watching Damen watch them. “And her mother stayed behind during the transfer. She sent the children ahead to her brother’s farm.”

It was incomprehensible how a mother could do that, and Damen said so.

Laurent shrugged. “Grief?” he suggested, sardonic. “Or perhaps it’s just that a home being overrun is still home.”

“But to send your children away? What would be the point?”

Laurent said, “You’d be surprised by the things people will choose, when it comes to family.”

The words sank into the air between them, a stone through mud. “At least she had her brother,” offered Damen.

“Yes,” said Laurent, and spoke no more.

They got a move on.

Impromptu stop aside, it looked as though they were proceeding as usual — to the troop at least. Damen knew better. He had learned enough from his time in Arles and on the road to know when Laurent was planning something.

And so when the men were settled and Jord dismissed and Laurent slinked away into the dark edges of camp, Damen followed.

He cut Laurent off near the horses. They had not had a moment alone together since morning.

“You can’t go,” said Damen.

He was met with a raised, perfect brow. “Oh?” said Laurent, dangerously.

It was awful. Of course it was, but still —

“You can’t go,” he repeated.

“And where,” said Laurent, “am I supposed to be not going?”

“I don’t know.” Damen crossed his arms. “You tell me.”

Laurent grimaced, his arch expression buckling a little. “An inn not far from here,” he said. “If my calculations are correct.”

“You don’t need me to tell you that it’s a stupid idea. Going after the boy,” Damen added, just to be clear. “It’s reckless and dangerous and there’s no purpose to it.”

“I gave my word.”

“You shouldn’t have given it in the first place. Since when do you allow yourself to be distracted by sentiment?”

“Sentiment,” Laurent said. There was a tightness to his face that Damen could not read. “I thought you of all people would be hot to play hero, rushing off to save the poor trembling pretty-boy from the sick Veretian’s bed.”

“Not when it’s strategically unsound. Why you?” said Damen. “Why now? I don’t understand why we’re having this argument again when everything hinges on you reaching the border alive. You were supposed to reach the border days ago.”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “And I wonder on whose advice that was.”

Damen ignored him. “There’s no need for this. You could send someone else to take care of it. It’s an easy enough fix. Or if you insist on handling it personally, we pass Chagny in a few days anyway. Why rush off now?”

“That man wanted a nine year old girl so that he could fuck a cunt without getting a bastard on her,” said Laurent. “Do you really want to leave anyone in his care any longer than necessary?”

Even after weeks of exposure, the crudeness of his words still repulsed him, which Damen could admit was probably the point.

Laurent shook his head a little, blond hair fluttering. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He said, voice sharp: “Are you coming or not?”

And then Damen noticed the second horse.

Defensiveness lurked in up-hitched shoulders. In meeting the deliberately defiant blue gaze, he came to understand that this was Laurent – imperious, self-reliant Laurent – asking him to help.

“Fine,” Damen said.

Of course, he wasn’t happy about it.

Having gotten what he wanted, Laurent became singularly unhelpful, giving curt replies whenever asked, or refusing to respond at all, choosing instead to pull his horse out of conversing range whenever Damen opened his mouth.

Damen tempered his irritation by returning to the question of what blessing Laurent could’ve received, had politics allowed for it. There had been books on Kemptian fairytales in the library at Ios. Not many — Kempt was too far and not significant enough to Akielos for that, but Damen had vague, hazy memories of a few rainy days spent on white bears and enchanted castles and poisoned spindles.

Grace had been a popular naming gift. Beauty, wit. Laurent had all of those, even if he employed them, poisonously, in ways a benevolent fairy might not have anticipated.

No, thought Damen, eyeing the tight cast of Laurent’s posture that spoke of pushing through deep discomfort and exhaustion. Even as an infant, no one could’ve thought to gift him with something so pedestrian. Maybe he’d been blessed with sheer bullheadedness instead.

It was not so much a town as a simple street. They stabled their horses, draping their packs and horse blankets to disguise Laurent’s royal brand.

The plan was simple. Find the man that took Annette’s brother, persuade him to give her brother up, whether through bribery or force or plain trickery, and bring the boy home. If they rode fast, they could be back in camp by morning.

As for their cover story, Laurent pulled out Volo’s hat. “We’re two guards sent on to Chagny. Quincy” — that was the name of Annette’s landlord — “owes us money.”

“Given what I’ve seen of your card playing, I find that hard to believe.”

“Turns out you have a talent for counting cards.”

“Shocking.”

“Isn’t it? I wasn’t aware you could count that high.”

They were at the threshold of the inn. “Wait,” said Damen. “You have…” One silky lock had escaped the cap, gleaming softly yellow against the light. His fingers itched as Laurent reached up, found it, and tucked it away again.

Blue eyes looked up through golden lashes. “Better?” inquired Laurent.

Damen swallowed. “Yes.”

Inside, the inn was spacious and clean, which lent it an air of respectability that would appeal to petty landowner and merchant alike.

“Two rooms,” Damen told the innkeeper. They were not playing lovers this time. “Is supper still available?”

Laurent slipped on ahead as Damen settled their bill. Damen entered the dining room to find Laurent completely transformed. Gone was the straight back and imperious expression, instead he looked flustered and boyishly earnest. He was helping the serving maid. She had spilled wine all over the table, heads bent intimately together as twin pale hands mopped at the rapidly spreading liquid.

Damen wondered, uncharitably, if Laurent had tripped her.

“No no,” Laurent was saying. “The fault was all mine. I should’ve been paying attention.”

He had definitely tripped her.

The maid smiled, softness briefly overtaking the mortified panic. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Here, hold this, please.”

Astoundingly, Laurent took her tray as she started piling stained cloths on top, cleaning up the last of the mess.

“There’s another spot over here,” Laurent said helpfully.

The maid flashed a smile and nodded. When her tray was back in hand, she said, “I’ll be right out. And I’ll bring something nice for you, as a thank you.”

The ‘something nice’ was another pitcher of wine. Damen sniffed at it. Definitely better than what they passed around the campfire. He shrugged to himself. After everything he’d experienced at the hands of Laurent’s trickery, why not benefit for a change?

But before he could pour, Laurent laid a hand over his wrist. His skin was soft and dry where they brushed. “Wait.” He smiled apologetically to the maid. “Could you bring some water for my companion?” In a confiding tone: “He gets the most terrible headaches when he drinks and we’ve got to get a move on.”

The maid servant nodded approvingly and promised to do so right away.

Damen looked sidelong at Laurent. “What will you do when she sees you drinking from the wrong cup?”

Laurent said breezily, “Assume that I’m setting a good example for my friend.”

Damen snorted. His mind conjured images of Laurent demonstrating the penetrative capacity of different cutlery to Nicaise. It was hard to imagine Laurent setting a good example for anyone.

The maid servant came back again, water in hand. “Any food for the two of you? There’s venison roasting in the kitchen.”

Laurent portioned out a careful pause. “No,” he sighed. “No, just whatever is cheapest, thank you.”

“You certain?” said the serving maid.

Laurent smiled sadly. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “My friend lost almost all our money playing cards. He won it back, of course, he’s not that bad at cards, but then the other man wouldn’t pay up.”

Damen wondered when he became a card sharp on top of a gambler.

“What?” gasped the maid. “That’s awful!”

“Yes, he said he was on his way to Chagny. As though anyone on their way to Chagny would need to steal money,” Laurent added, a little spitefully.

The serving maid clucked her tongue. “It’s always those richest that take the most from the rest of us.”

“Well I suppose…he had a young boy with him, you know,” said Laurent. “Very sweet looking, perhaps a nephew? Maybe he was taking him to be fostered. You know expenses can pile up.”

“Even so,” said the serving maid. “That’s no reason to cheat another man. I wish I could say I’ve seen someone with that description, but I’m only here twice a week. Those men over there though, they’re here almost every night. They like to invite strangers to their games, gives them something to gossip about.”

“Thank you,” said Laurent. “That is quite helpful, actually.”

The serving maid left them soon after that.

Laurent gave Damen a look. “Stay here.”

Damen sat back. He was quite comfortable where he was.

Laurent approached the cluster of men who invited him to join. They were friendly. Maybe a little too friendly, thought Damen, who had seen the looks some of them had cast down Laurent’s face and body. He kept an ear on their conversation.

Laurent’s calculations had been correct. Quincy was here. He knew all the players at the table, as brother-in-law to one of their friends. It was only that he preferred to stay home with family if he was only passing through.

Damen thought with amusement of an unexpectedly barred window in an otherwise effective plan.

Laurent set about locating the friend with his usual needling precision. As the conversation continued however, and Laurent’s probing remarks were rebuffed again and again, a desperate nervy tension began to rise, invisible to the eye, but infecting the air nonetheless.

Damen felt it. From the way they were shifting and growing steadily more hostile at this annoying wasp and its strange interest in one of their own, the men felt it too.

It was originating from Laurent.

Maybe that why, when Laurent’s words hit the mark just a little shy of too hard, one of the men snapped, “Fuck off. You want to fill your mouth with nonsense so bad? Go suck a fat cock.”

Laurent straightened as though pulled on a string, a movement that he tried – but not quite managed – to offset with a disdainful look and walked out the door. The man and his friends laughed, meanly. Damen hurried after him.

“Laurent!”

Laurent was flushed lurid red from cheek to tight-laced collar. “We’re returning to camp.”

“But —“

“I doubt we’ll get anything more useful out of them anyway,” Laurent said tightly. “Might as well do as they said, and ‘fuck off.’”

Laurent’s movements became more and more natural as he walked, that iron will reasserting its control over his body. Damen did not understand why it would need to. He also did not understand why, after all that insistence earlier, Laurent was simply giving up.

It was clear that he wasn’t happy about it, too. He mounted his horse and set off at a pace that could only be described as brusque.

“Slow down,” Damen called.

Laurent slowed so much, Damen half thought to check if he’d developed a new way of riding so that his horse’s hooves inched across the ground like a snail.

“Could we go faster,” he started.

“I don’t know,” snapped Laurent, “can we?”

Half a question: “Yes?”

Laurent kicked into a gallop. Damen cursed and threw himself after him.

When they arrived back to camp, Laurent’s face was pale and drawn. He tossed his reins to a stablehand and marched off determinedly.

Damen followed him back to his tent intending to demand answers for once.

Laurent stopped him at the threshold. “No,” he said. His face was looking rather sallow. “Out.”

Damen stepped forward, indignant.

Laurent’s hand came up, almost touching his chest, and then he was lurching away, hands closing around the table edge. When he spoke there was spiraling hoarseness to his voice, and it sent a bolt of cold through Damen’s chest. Laurent said, “Out!”

Then his knees gave out.

Damen heard his voice say – something. Laurent flinched violently away from him. Around the fist he’d shoved in his mouth, Laurent said something incoherent - chicken? Kitchen? Laurent was shaking his head. His teeth had broken skin. It took Damen a moment to realize it was not the only source of blood.

Blood trailing out the corners of Laurent’s eyes, out his nose, dribbling from his ears. The entire world whited out. Damen was shouting for Paschal now. Laurent hadn’t eaten anything Damen hadn’t, had he?

At some point Laurent had moved his clenched grip from the table to Damen’s belt, elbow locked as though he could not decide to pull him close or push him away.

The ground was cold beneath Damen’s knees. Laurent was convulsing against it.

Distantly, he thought of what would happen if they found the prince of Vere dead alone with his Akielon slave. Delpha would be overrun first. Nikandros would never know it was because of Damen, and his stupid, stupid failure to keep an upstart princeling alive.

The tent flap opened. Damen’s head snapped up. Laurent would not want to be seen like this.

It was Paschal.

“I don’t know what happened,” Damen said. “He was fine and then-“

“Out,” said Paschal.

“But–“

Harder than Damen had ever heard him: “Now!”

Damen got out. There was a horrible pleading sound, as Paschal prised Laurent’s grip on Damen’s belt open. And then the tent flap was closing in his face.

It was quiet outside. It made the ringing in his ears that much louder. He was distantly aware of the guards staring at him, but he could not seem to care. There was blood on his hands.

Soft murmurs inside the tent. A cough.

Laurent’s voice, accusingly hoarse: “You knew.”

Soon — too soon, Damen thought, for what he had seen tonight — Paschal was pushing out the tent.

His hand closed around Paschal’s arm before he consciously decided to move. Paschal looked at him. Damen let go. He could not make words come out.

Paschal shook his head.

Numbly, he half-fell, half-stumbled into the tent. In his mind’s eye, he saw Laurent’s body relaxed in a way it never was in life, the infuriating mouth finally still, he saw—

Laurent, setting down his cup, appearance impeccable, cool as a cucumber. It was as though nothing had happened.

There was a bloodied handkerchief on the table.

Laurent watched Damen approach with unreadable eyes. There was a looseness in his posture that Damen had never seen before, as though Laurent could not quite force himself into his usual iron-clapped composure.

Damen said, “Will you die?”

Laurent’s body betrayed his surprise. “What?” he said.

“There’s something wrong with you. You’re ill,” Damen stated. He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a statement or a question. Both were untenable. “In Akielos, we know of men and women who have convulsions. Fits that come without warning, but rarely leave lasting harm, save for whatever damage is done by a bad fall. Otherwise they live long, normal lives. Is this like that?”

Laurent said, with a hint of amusement, “Were you not just asking me if I would die?”

Damen did not respond. He kept his fists loose at his sides.

“There’s no need to worry,” said Laurent. “My chances of making it to the border alive are the same as ever.”

Damen reached, like a man stumbling in the dark, for the same irritation that had carried him through half a dozen exchanges. “So,” he said. “Low.”

“You should really work on your sense of tact and delicacy.” Lightly: “I could be dying, you know.”

Damen remained unmoved.

Laurent scowled. “Enough,” he said. “There’s no need to concern yourself.” In a gesture that brooked no argument, he extended his wrist. “This conversation is over. Either attend me or find someone who will.”

He could hardly subject someone else to Laurent in this mood. Damen, cursing, went.

No need to concern himself. No need to concern himself?

If Laurent wanted to insist on this stupid self-sufficiency he could go and choke on it. Damen did not care at all.

Scowling, he went through drills and chivied the men along and spoke to Jord and offered tactical advice. Laurent ignored his pointed stares and the waving villagers and the mens’ talk and the empty silences at night that would’ve been filled with, if not amicable, then at least not acrimonious conversation.

Damen spent his nights going through Paschal’s meager collection of books, searching for what could cause convulsions, near constant pain, and bleeding from the eyes and ears and nose. He half expected Laurent to say something snide, or cutting, or to order him to drop it entirely. Instead, he had just looked at Damen with fathomless eyes, and in a shrug-like motion, turned and readied himself for bed.

At least Damen was not the only one locked in a stalemate. Laurent and Paschal were at odds too. Damen watched with bitter amusement as Laurent dodged Paschal again and again without ever seeming to do so, until he was finally forced to submit or risk a scene.

Across camp, Laurent locked eyes with Damen as Paschal caught up to him once again. Damen looked back, equally impassive. He would not be helping Laurent escape.

Every time Laurent emerged from Paschal’s clutches, there was a freedom to him, to the way he held himself, as though he had been released from some terrible strain. And then Damen would watch the same tension return, like a winch the wound tighter and tighter with every step and every passing minute until it snapped.

He had not known the pressure Laurent had been under, until he saw him with it gone. Had Laurent been on the edge of – what happened – all this time?

Outside the confectionary tent, there were voices. Evidently, Paschal had not worn himself out against Laurent’s iron-willed pigheadedness just yet.

“Your Highness,” he was saying. “You must come to me daily, and you will accept regular treatment.”

“Paschal,” said the elegant voice. “You should know very well by now that this is not how it works.”

“Your Highness—“

“Will you tell?” said Laurent.

Shock and just a hint of protest. “Your Highness!”

“Will you tell, Paschal?”

“Never.”

“Then there is nothing else I need from you.”

Pleading: “Why do this, sire?”

Damen could almost see the blithe shrug. “I’ve survived this long.”

Laurent shoved through the tent flap and stopped short at the sight of Damen, waiting. He recovered quick, though. “What do you want,” he said flatly.

“Sit,” said Damen.

A coolly raised brow.

“Please,” Damen tacked on.

Like a cat that wanted you to know it was only humoring you, Laurent sat, one foot coming up to rest on the opposite knee. “Well?”

“We pass Chagny tomorrow,” said Damen. “I want to know what your intentions are.”

Laurent’s amusement vanished. He said, “Is it so wrong to want a closer look at one of my Uncle’s most ardent supporters?”

Damen frowned. He didn’t know Gauthier was the Regent’s man. “That makes it even more dangerous.”

“Chagny is no military power,” Laurent said. He tapped one elegant finger on the map. “We’re hardly going to be ambushed in the hills. And Gauthier is too spineless to kill me without my uncle’s explicit say so. He’s hardly going to receive it, what with Uncle’s confidence in him being limited since Gauthier’s last boy displeased him. That was, hm, a little more than three years ago?”

Damen swallowed. “You haven’t given up then.”

Laurent’s jaw was set. “I keep my promises.”

“So,” said Damen. “How do you want to do this? What happened last time –“

Laurent said, “Nothing happened.”

It was like a sword swinging at you at full speed. Damen willed himself to remain unmoved. The brazier crackled.

“Nothing that will happen again,” Laurent gritted out.

Damen found that hard to believe.

The next day a messenger arrived with an invitation to dinner at Chagny. Laurent accepted it with an unreadable expression. Damen found his way to Paschal’s tent.

As soon as he saw Damen, Paschal said, “I cannot betray my prince’s confidences.”

Damen wondered if he was becoming predictable. Then, mournfully, he wondered why people were predicting that he’d be concerned about Laurent.

“What if it happens again?” Damen said instead. “What if it happens and you aren’t around?” And I can’t help him. “How can he enter another melee with that risk hanging over him?”

“He’s managed all these years,” Paschal said.

“And he’s been on the verge of it the entire time I’ve known him, hasn’t he,” said Damen. “You’ve been treating him. I can see the difference. Is it an illness? Was he poisoned?” Damen could live without the truth. He just needed — something. “Is there a trigger?”

A pause, as Paschal looked him over. He said, slowly, “The onset is not random. He will try to push through it. He can succeed.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Damen watched Paschal come to a decision. He sighed. His eyes fell closed, resigned. “If it looks like he will lose, tell him, ‘do as Paschal told you.’”

Damen did not see how that would do anything for Laurent. “And that will help?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Paschal.

Chagny was as frivolous a castle as Damen had ever seen, and he had spent the last two months in Vere.

As they had approached the threshold of Chagny, Laurent squared his shoulders. “Keep your eyes open,” he murmured to Damen. Dryly: “Trust me, you’ll hate it.”

Laurent was correct.

Everything, from the oak banisters, to the brass door knobs, to the servants themselves, dressed in uniform, was ornamented. Frothy gauzes and silks spilled from windows and courtiers and surfaces. Damen’s eyes ached for rest. He could not imagine a single occupant of the place trudging through rain and mud, working themselves to exhaustion, as he and Laurent’s men had.

And he could not help searching every face for a hint of Annette’s high brow or mouth or freckled nose. But the few boys that darted about bore no resemblance to her, and none of them wore the silks of a pet hopeful.

Laurent strode through the halls with the same self-possession he always had. He was utterly without hesitation. Not a single look was spared for the swathes of red, the shadowy alcoves meant, no doubt, to provide just enough exposure to keep various acts scandalously interesting.

Gauthier was middle aged, elegantly dressed, with warm brown eyes. He greeted his prince pleasantly and with respect. You could hardly tell what kind of a man he was.

He offered Laurent lodgings for the night, which Laurent refused, sweetly, under the guise of scrupulous equality with his men, which was a lie.

Dinner was a veritable feast. Venison, fatty boar, stuffed duck. Sweetmeats of every kind, sculpted to resemble all manner of creature, from a horse mid-gallop to dancing boys frosted pearly white. Rich stews, roasted vegetables. It had been a hard winter. Damen remembered eating well every night, when he was in Ios.

It was his role as body slave to serve Laurent. The cushions on Laurent’s chair matched the tapestries. He stood two paces back and left his position only to keep Laurent’s plate filled, ignoring the glances at the candied berries and cooked greens, taking only from the platters of meat that Gauthier ate from.

Laurent leveled an unamused look at him but said nothing. Probably too busy embedding thorns into every charming pleasantry.

Gauthier clapped his hands. “I have a treat for you,” he said to Laurent, and Damen stiffened as a servant approached, bottle in hand. “I remember how Your Highness enjoyed this when you were last here.”

“How lovely,” said Laurent. The blue eyes rested lightly on the presented wine. “Yes, that is the one. I’m touched that you remember.”

Gauthier said, “I want to congratulate you on your new commitment to duty. It is so good to see you finally begin to pay back the gentle care your uncle has always shown you. I remember when he brought you here after Marlas, how he carried you back to your rooms himself after you overindulged.”

“The follies of youth,” said Laurent.

Gauthier laughed. “Now,” he said. “Shall we see if it tastes as good as you remember? Pour,” he directed, at the servant.

Laurent opened his mouth.

“No, no, no excuses,” said Gauthier. His eyes glittered, and in them, Damen saw a small man made big by the humiliation of others. “Don’t refuse, Your Highness. You’ve had a long ride, so enjoy yourself again tonight! Please,” he said. “Drink.”

The tendons on Laurent’s hands stood out where they were clenched around the arms of his chair, hidden from view by the vast table. Damen watched, as knuckle by knuckle, Laurent prised his fingers free on the dark wood.

He had seen Laurent sidestep and circumvent and tolerate worse before. Gauthier was obnoxious, certainly, but Laurent could take him apart with five well placed words and a bitchy sigh. So why didn’t he?

Instead, his lips were pressed together, tight to the point of losing all color.

He will try to push through it, Paschal had said. He can succeed.

Damen heard, in his memory, the sound Laurent had made as Paschal ripped his fingers away from him.

The elegant wrist reached out for the cup. Laurent’s face was flat and dead.

Damen found himself moving without thinking. Cutlery dropped, bounced against plate, and fell into Laurent’s lap.

Laurent raised an eyebrow.

Damen’s shoulders rose as if ashamed. He apologized profusely, slavishly. Over the gawking laughter, he leaned over to pick at the mess of fork and knife and sauce, and as he did so, he murmured, so that only Laurent could hear, “Do as Paschal told you.”

For a moment, Damen thought that he had made a grave mistake. Laurent turned so pale, he feared he would have another fit.

But Laurent mastered his reaction. “Enough,” he snapped, waving Damen away.

Dmane ducked his head and stepped back. Servants rushed forward to take the soiled napkin and cutlery off his hands.

Laurent turned his eyes onto Gauthier. “I’m afraid my tastes have changed, Gauthier,” he drawled. “That happens when boys grow up. I doubt there is anything on offer in Chagny that will suit me.”

Damen watched Gauthier swallow that insult, poorly.

“Speaking of boys,” said Gauthier. “We have an auction tonight. A beautiful selection of pets. I’ve got my eye on one, a farm boy to the north, but a diamond in the rough. Are you interested?”

Damen expected Laurent to refuse. Another pet? he could almost hear him say. After all the work I put into breaking this one?

Instead, he hesitated.

Gauthier chuckled, smug. “I see your reputation is not as it seems. I knew it was not so. When people told me, I said, ‘That affectionate young boy? I don’t believe it!’”

Laurent said, droll, “Don’t tell Uncle.”

“Not to worry,” Gauthier said. “We are very discreet here. I could arrange a private showing before the auction, if Your Highness wished?”

Laurent had a remarkable ability to turn his nose up at you without moving an inch. “Why bid when I know I can win?” he said haughtily. “My remaining estates have not left me so poor. But whichever boy that caught your attention must be something.” Danger! screamed Damen’s every nerve. Laurent smiled and said lightly, “How about a wager?”

Damen half expected to see smoke rising behind them as they left Chagny mere hours later, Jean in tow.

Laurent was squeezing the boy for information. Who had he seen passing through the keep? What livery did they wear? What horses and supplies had he seen? Had he spoken to anyone else before today?

The boy was clad in light slippers and silks that revealed lanky muscle characteristic of young men born to physical labor. Dabs of paint highlighted the roundness of his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes. He had his sister’s freckles.

Laurent had, thoughtfully, provided a change of clothes and boots. They turned their back to offer the boy privacy.

This was a bad idea, but it was not beyond his ability to run a boy of thirteen down if it became necessary. Besides, Jean deserved it. He looked at them as though he could not believe the fact that they were here, and he was here, and he had not been touched by either of them.

When Laurent had finished extracting all the details he could from the poor boy, he handed him a pack of supplies and a purse of money and sent him on his way with a barely reigned in curtness that left Damen reeling.

Damen was annoyed with himself for being surprised. Then he was annoyed with Laurent for being a cad. He had spoken gently enough to the girl Annette, and she had endured an arguably less harrowing experience than her brother. Was he really sending a twelve year old boy to walk five days through the countryside, unaccompanied, and without a single word of comfort?

When Damen opened his mouth to speak, Laurent shot him a look that communicated, venomously, the depths of his displeasure with Damen. Then he got on his horse.

Back at camp, Laurent ordered Damen to summon Paschal with an expression that promised a flaying.

“Don’t,” said Damen, catching him by the arm.

“Don’t what,” said Laurent.

“Don’t blame Paschal, it’s not his fault. I asked him.”

“So I should blame you instead? How convenient. You are already here after all.”

“Laurent.”

“Your Highness,” Laurent corrected coldly.

Damen stepped back. “Your Highness.”

Satisfaction dropped over Laurent’s face like a well tied veil.

Damen promptly ripped it in two. He said, “You cannot lash out at us for finding ways around the secrets that you insist on. Secrets that, when left unchecked, become a danger to you and your goals. You were on the verge of something back there, and you know it, and you know I know it. That’s what you’re truly furious about. So stop weaving everything through a hundred layers of intrigue and just tell—“

Laurent said, “Another word and I cut your tongue from your mouth.” His breaths came short and rabbit quick.

A month ago Damen would’ve thought him incandescent with anger. Instead, for the first time ever, he watched as Laurent turned and ran from a fight.

Damen went and walked a circle around camp. Summer was coming. Their steady ride south brought about a change in temperature faster than the natural passage of time. Around him crickets chirped and grass rustled and the breeze carried all the heat away from his head.

He came back to the tent and found Laurent waiting. All his edges were bathed in candle light. Damen’s shoulders slumped in defeat. This was not something he could fight.

“I wish you would tell me the truth,” said Damen. And because he had spent so long watching, he saw how Laurent’s body was tensed, like a man bracing for news when he knows he has already lost. He thought of Laurent in this very same tent, convulsing, crying blood. “What’s wrong with you?”

For whatever reason, the tension in Laurent eased. “What’s wrong with me?” he said. “You’ve met my uncle.”

Damen frowned. “Stop deflecting.”

Laurent turned away. Picked up his goblet of water, swirled it around. “A childhood affliction. Some might call it a curse,” he said with a raw edge of amusement. Laurent’s eyes met Damen’s own. “I’ve had it all my life.”

“All your life,” Damen repeated. “If that’s the case, why doesn’t anyone know about it?”

He watched Laurent visibly decide what to say. “My father believed that a weakness in the royal family of Vere was a weakness in Vere.” Dry enough to catch flame: “We saw how well that worked out six years ago.”

Damen looked away. The tent was pristine and ornamented. You could hardly believe it was a war tent. “Is there truly nothing to be done?”

“No,” said Laurent shortly. “Not unless you’ve got the Queen of Fairies in your back pocket.”

Silence.

Laurent followed the spiral grain of the table with a finger. He kept his eyes on the wood, and Damen, stupidly, yearned for and feared their weight on him in equal measure.

Finally, Laurent said, “Auguste was good at helping me – bear it. He never tried to tell me what to do. He made the world safe for me.”

“Oh.” The scar in Damen’s shoulder burned.

Laurent smiled with no humor at all. “Oh, indeed.”