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The mood in the small banquet hall had lightened when the king retired, but not by much. Plates of dessert and cups of wine lay abandoned on the dining table; nobody was in the mood to linger over their food. The guards on duty, forbidden to carry weapons within castle grounds, were all the more obviously tense and edgy each time their patrol brought them past the open doorway, and the servants were very quiet and very subdued as they dipped in and out of the room to attend to their masters. On every mind lay the weight of the Veretian presence: not simply a town over, or an encampment away, but here, in the same castle, housed in the west wing. Close enough to see, to hear, to speak to. Close enough to cause trouble, to be a real threat.
A host of generals and statesmen had been honoured by an invitation to this historic meeting, the renegotiation of the treaty originally struck at Marlas. None of them seemed to remember this. All those who had been deemed important enough to dine with the king were now gathered about a sandbox map, arguing about where the Veretian attack would come from, and where to station the troops that would be needed to counter it.
“Now look here, Meniados, it’s a trivial cost and you know it —”
“A trivial cost that Karthas is always asked to pay,” Meniados retorted. “When you thought the Veretians were mobilising, whose city was asked to house and feed the soldiers that you thought it wise to send to the border? Karthas. And who paid for the housing and feeding of those soldiers —”
“The crown,” Nikandros gritted out.
“— the people,” said Meniados, “who went hungry because the price of bread rose six sols in a month —”
“Because you tossed aside the regulations on the price of bread when your sister married that baker —”
“Those soldiers ate our citizens out of house and home!”
Damen had lost the thread of this conversation some time ago, but it did not appear to have grown any more tolerable in the interim. Any attempt to consider a more encouraging outlook — what if there was no attack from the Veretians? What if this meeting was truly an attempt at disarmament and productive discussion? What if Crown Prince Auguste was genuine when he claimed to want a more lasting peace between their countries? — had long since been dismissed out of hand, by the king most of all. They could not trust Veretians; this was considered a self-evident fact. That Damen was trying to speak on their behalf only meant that he had been visiting the border too often and for too long, that he needed a long summer in Ios to clear his head.
The fact of the invitation had become, in itself, proof of the Veretians’ poisonous intentions. What other reason could they have to invite the Akielon royal family to Marlas? Why insist that they come unarmed? After protracted negotiations, an an agreement had been hammered out in which each country would bring one troop of guards, armed, who would patrol the grounds, and another troop, who would remain unarmed within the castle itself. Nobody was happy with this arrangement. Each had been given the chance to thoroughly inspect the other, but it seemed to have made no difference; certainly none of the generals in this room believed that the Veretian party were truly unarmed. The attack was coming, and Akielos’ only consideration should be preparing for it.
It was not a very pleasant atmosphere. Certainly it was not conducive to brokering peace, true peace, with their Veretian counterparts. How could it be, when everyone was more concerned with a hypothetical ambush than with the question of how to manage Delpha? For six years, the province had laboured under an unwieldy system of double statehood, considered technically a part of both Akielos and of Vere, and consequently obliged to evenly divide every aspect of its output, from wool and fruit to soldiers and craftsmen, between two quarrelling parties. The royal families of Akielos and Vere had gotten into the habit of sending representatives to take up residence in Delpha for months at a stretch, showily making sure that everything met their standards for fairness. A thousand petty fights had broken out between dissatisfied factions; it was only a matter of time before war followed. This was a chance to halt the downward spiral in its tracks, perhaps the last real chance they would get, and they were wasting it on petty feuding.
Damen sat up, determined to speak again now that the dissenting voice of the king was absent, to make these men understand. As he opened his mouth the room went deadly quiet.
He blinked. For a moment he wondered if he’d had more wine than he realised; had he started speaking? But no, he’d only had two glasses, and the stares were directed past him. He turned. Ice trailed down his spine.
In the doorway stood a man, lithe and deadly, who looked like a character out of a storybook. He was dressed entirely in black, even his hair and face covered; only a small slit revealed his eyes, a deep extraordinary blue, and a strip of pale skin. In one hand he held a sword. The gleam of lamplight off his blade seemed to overwhelm the room. For a moment everyone stood in frozen shock, looking at this interloper.
The interloper looked back, those remarkable eyes travelling lazily over the room, taking everyone’s measure. Then they landed on Damen, and paused; from behind the mask grew a smile. Damen’s heart was behaving oddly in his chest.
The man in the doorway bowed very shallowly, very correctly, moving as though to click his heels on the tiled floor. His shoes, being soft-soled, made no sound. “I’m very glad to see,” he said, in Veretian-accented Akielon, “that the Akielon sense of honour remains unimpeachably correct.” His voice was crudely disguised, pitched a little lower than its natural range; it should have sounded foolish, but somehow it did nothing to detract from the man’s poise. “Which means that I am the only one present with a weapon, and can advise you all to be very careful in what you do next.” He flourished the sword he carried, with light and easy confidence, in his right hand.
This display broke the room out of its stillness; the men began to shift uneasily, to mutter amongst themselves. They were unarmed, but nearly all of them were experienced fighters. The young kyros of Mellos broke first, making a short, aborted movement, as though unsure of whether to launch into an attack. The man in the doorway twirled his sword again, with a casualness which spoke of long practice, of comfortable mastery.
“Perhaps you could take me,” he said, “even unarmed. After all, there are — how many? — nine of you, I believe, and only one of me, for the moment. But how many men might I take down with me? I flatter myself it would be a respectable amount; perhaps four or five. And I have the doorway to my advantage. If that number was lowered to three, would the risk be worth it? I think for General Makedon there it might be.”
The room seethed. If looks could kill, this man would be dead where he stood.
“For the moment?”
Everyone turned to look at Damen, even the furious Makedon, puzzlement creeping into their expressions. The intruder was also looking at him, those cool blue eyes resting on him expectantly, as though Damen was a prize pupil about to answer a difficult question.
Damen coughed. “You said, there is only one of you, for the moment.”
“Yes,” said the man. “My men will join me shortly.” And then, “They are occupied now in confining your guards to the room neighbouring this one.”
“Which means now is the time,” said Makedon, stepping away from the sand-box, “to halt this Veretian perfidy in its tracks.”
If one man broke rank to attack the newcomer, more would follow, and there would certainly be blood drawn. Damen stood, but before he could say anything the intruder spoke again.
“Veretian? No. I feel as tenderly towards the Veretian royal family as I do the Akielon. That is to say,” with another warning swing of his sword, “the de Veres will also be receiving a visit on this night. I am acting for Delpha.”
This was confusing enough to give everyone pause; and this in turn was enough time for the intruder’s men to join him, filing through the doorway in a small stream, ultimately outnumbering the generals and kyroi in the room almost two to one. They were all dressed in the same manner as their leader, with black clothes and hoods and black cloth masks over their faces, and they all carried wickedly sharp blades with the same air of long experience.
The leader sheathed his own sword and strolled into the room, insultingly at ease.
Damen couldn’t take his eyes off him. He moved with easy grace, navigating the cluttered furniture without looking down, as comfortable as any man in his own home. His limbs were elegantly proportioned, their movements smooth and self-contained. He gave the impression of a large cat, prowling. And they were all his prey.
Nikandros moved unsubtly to shield Damen’s body with his own. Damen clasped his friend’s arm, touched, but then moved away; he would not hide behind someone else.
“Now,” said the leader, who seemed to be enjoying the sound of his own voice, “I hope and believe that my work here can be achieved quite peacefully. You will be going into the next room, with the guardsmen — I am afraid you’ll find it rather cramped, but rest assured you will not be there forever. I only need enough time for my men and I to make our escape. You understand. And I’m sure you won’t hold it against me that I need to take certain precautions.”
From the muttering complaints which arose immediately upon seeing the ropes, it seemed that everyone would indeed hold it against him. At a gesture, the black-clad group sprang into action. Half of them brought their swords up to vulnerable throats; the other half sheathed their weapons and began fastening knots around wrists and ankles, thoroughly incapacitating the best of Akielos.
A few scuffles broke out, men who thought they stood a chance at overpowering an armed opponent. Damen said, “No,” sharply, his voice carrying through the room. “Don’t be foolish. We’re outnumbered and unarmed. Better to submit now and live to fight another day.” It even had the benefit of being true; he would have given this order in most equivalent situations.
“How wise,” said a voice directly in front of him, and Damen had to suppress a start. While he had been focused on the other side of the room, the leader of the intruders had come close to him, now standing less than an arm’s length away. “Damianos-exalted.”
Heart hammering, Damen said, “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Good,” said the man. “That is where I want you.” And he took, from where it had been fastened to his waist, his own coil of rope.
If the complaints had been loud before, they were earsplitting now. It was one thing for a general or a kyroi to agree that he might be tied up. It was quite another to watch their Crown Prince be treated similarly.
“I suppose,” said Damen, under the noise, “my word to obey would not be enough for you?”
“Would you give it?”
“Certainly,” said Damen. His blood hummed in his ears as the man before him considered this.
“I don’t doubt your word, Exalted,” the man said. “But I prefer to be thorough.”
He lifted one hand and laid it on Damen’s shoulder. Even through the gloves he wore, and Damen’s chiton, the touch felt like a searing brand. It was all Damen could do to keep from shuddering. The push, when it came, was gentle and inexorable; Damen turned, hardly aware of the room’s eyes on him, the whole of his attention narrowed down to that single point of contact.
The man took his hand back, but gave Damen no time to mourn the loss. He took hold of Damen’s elbows, his touch sliding downward; in a moment he had captured one of Damen’s wrists in each hand. From there it was trivial to bring Damen’s hands behind his back, to cross his wrists neatly, and to loop coarse rope around the sensitive skin. Damen had not known his wrists could feel so very acutely.
From the corner of the room, a scuffle: Nikandros was truly struggling now, against his bonds and against the man who was trying to restrain him. “How dare you,” he snarled. The sword at his throat seemed to have been forgotten. “How dare you lay hands on the Exalted? Give me back my sword and let me challenge you like a man —”
“Nik, don’t —” Damen began to say, and found himself cut off when the man behind him kicked, gently, at the back of one knee, then used the resulting moment of unsteadiness to manoeuvre him onto a nearby chair. One hand gripped Damen’s hair, tilting his head back, and the other brought a short blade up to exposed line of his throat.
It was a wrestling move, perfectly executed. Heat shivered through Damen’s whole body. He had to fight not to cross his legs.
“I think,” said the leader in his low, rough voice, “your prince was going to tell you to stand down.”
A breath. Damen forced his awareness to expand outward again, to take in the tense, silent room, the trembling fury of his men. “Yes, I was,” he said — to the mouldings on the ceiling, since his head was still being pulled to an awkward angle. “Nobody asked for these theatrics.”
The blade at Damen’s throat tapped gently against the skin, the metal growing warmer. “I find,” said the man, “that theatrics are often the best way to communicate a message.”
This message was clear enough. Fail to cooperate, and the prince would die. The room was on the point of explosion. In the edge of Damen’s vision, his men looked murderously ready to take on extremely poor odds to resolve this situation. Damen found himself thinking, traitorously, that everyone needed to have been removed five minutes ago.
“Let’s try another way,” Damen proposed. “If we all give our word to obey your orders this night, will you give yours not to harm anyone?”
An exaggerated sigh. “I suppose so,” the man said.
“Put your blade away first,” Nik demanded.
After a pointed moment — during which Damen thought again of a cat, who wanted to make clear that any fulfillment of a person’s wishes was only a coincidental alignment with the cat’s own desires — the knife was withdrawn. The hand in Damen’s hair released its grip. The man behind him took a single step backwards.
“Gentlemen,” he said. Damen could imagine the way he would be holding his hands up, showily empty. “I consider that a fine token of good faith.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Damen’s men gave their word. The swords lowered from their throats. The ropes held fast, and the temperature of the room inched towards resignation.
“All right,” the intruder said. “I suppose I consider that a fairly decent token of good faith.” And he lay his hand back on Damen’s shoulder, a charged, possessive touch. “Take them out.”
Nikandros rankled again, as did General Makedon and one or two of the younger men. But they all let themselves be pushed out of the room, walking awkwardly with clipped, shortened steps. They all cast agonised glances back at Damen; it went against every instinct to leave him, alone, in the hands of unknown villains. Damen nodded at them, encouraging co-operation. A few moments after they had disappeared from view, he heard a door close and then the telltale sound of a lock sliding home.
Left alone together in the wide room, Damen did not try to rise from his seat, simply looked up at the black-clad gatecrasher. Those blue eyes glimmered down at him, bright and knowing and impossible not to recognise.
“And just what,” said Damen, “do you think you’re doing?”
“All in good time,” said Laurent. He was no longer bothering to disguise his voice, and it came out rich with teasing.
“Is this not a good time?”
“Not yet,” said Laurent. “You’re coming with me.” He took hold of Damen’s arm just above the elbow and tugged him into a standing position.
Damen obeyed the touch, rising, but then leaned forward to press a kiss to where Laurent’s mouth was under the black fabric. Even through a mask, it was dazzlingly good to see him, to be near him. It had been two months since they had last been in Delpha together, two months since their last rendezvous. Too long.
Laurent’s mask fluttered with his next shaking breath, and he slipped his arms around Damen’s waist, leaned his forehead against Damen’s jaw. He had felt it too. The moment unspooled between them, private and restorative. They had both been part of their respective royal delegations for this meeting, and it had been like torture, this morning, to nod coolly at each other across the gaping space of a courtyard. Even to that, Damen had seen the cold displeasure in King Aleron’s face, and his own father had been no warmer. Neither king was truly open to negotiations with the enemy. Both of them would be appalled to learn of what their sons were doing, in those long blissful months when they were meant to be supervising the equalisation of Delpha’s revenue and annual crop production. It seemed an impossible task to secure their tolerance, let alone their agreement.
It was a problem which had troubled Damen for some time by now. His father, he thought, would eventually come around, if only because Damen was his heir. Laurent was less confident, both in Theomedes — who did, after all, have a second son — and in Aleron, who could and likely would escalate tensions at the border in the name of a son stolen from his home. Damen could weather his own disinheritance; bringing more pain on the people of Delpha was unacceptable; the prospect of a life without Laurent was insupportable. The situation was a neat little tangle. And now Laurent was doing — whatever this was.
Laurent’s voice, muffled between them, said, “Stop distracting me. We don’t have much time.”
“I’m not doing anything,” said Damen.
“You were,” said Laurent, “looking at me.”
Damen felt the smile grow in his mouth. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’ll keep my eyes closed for you.”
“Do,” said Laurent, finally pulling away. Damen tried to reach for him, on instinct, and then remembered that his arms were bound. The corners of Laurent’s eyes crinkled in that way which meant he was smiling; then he wound a hand through the ties at Damen’s wrist, just below the small of his back, and pushed.
Damen moved obediently into a walk. His balance was slightly off from the position he had been tied in, not enough that he felt in danger of falling, but enough to make him careful. The hand at his back pushed a little more forcefully.
“We don’t have all day, you know.”
“Because it’s nighttime?” Only a huff greeted this harmless attempt at polite conversation. Laurent steered him through a servant’s corridor, his sword unsheathed and ready in his hand; it was lucky that they did not come across anyone performing late-night duties. Damen could only imagine the sight they made. When he looked back over his shoulder, Laurent’s face had grown focused and intent under the black mask.
Damen allowed himself to be pushed through another small door, and then through the gardens towards the stables. When Laurent showed no sign of stopping here, he began to test his bindings in earnest. “Hang on, Laurent — ouch!”
“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?”
“Sorry,” said Damen, twisting his hands to try and rub at the spot on his waist that Laurent had just pinched. “What should I call you, then?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” said Laurent.
“Later? I — wait, wait a moment,” said Damen. Behind him, the rope held; the knots could have been tied by a sailor, they were so immovable. “You’re not really planning to kidnap the Crown Prince of Akielos?” It was almost a statement, but wavered at the last moment.
“Throwing your rank around, Exalted? I didn’t take you for the type.”
“I’m not — this is important!”
“So is this.” They had drawn to a halt behind the stables, where a handful of black-clad men were waiting for them, saddled up and ready to ride. The horses were shifting impatiently, unaccustomed to night journeys. With an imperious gesture: “Pick one and get ready to mount up.”
Damen hesitated. It would be no use asking again what Laurent thought he was up to; he knew well enough that Laurent divulged information at his own pace. But it seemed completely demented that he should willingly ride away from the palace in these circumstances. His men would be furious, fearful for his safety. His father would be the same. Hostilities might truly break out at any moment — he didn’t know whether anyone would buy Laurent’s vague disavowal of the Veretians, let alone his story of working for Delpha.
On the other hand, Laurent had never yet steered him wrong. He had a remarkable capacity and capability for intrigue. More than that, he had a genuine devotion to the people of Delpha, impossible to doubt; even before they’d met, Damen had found him to be the most reasonable correspondent in the Veretian party to the region, once he saw beyond the sharp prose to the substance of the proposals beneath them. And Laurent had shown several times over by now that he was as willing to manoeuvre troublesome Veretian lords as Akielon ones.
Laurent was behind him now, picking at the rope — belatedly Damen realised that he was not cutting it, but untying the knots with meticulous care. After a moment the ties loosened, and Damen brought his hands to the front of his body, absently stretching out his wrists.
Hesitation lingered. Damen pushed past it to say, “I suppose I did give my word to obey.”
He felt the way Laurent relaxed, minutely, behind him. A hand touched Damen’s waist, there and gone.
“You did,” said Laurent. “The honour of all Akielos depends upon your actions now.”
Damen pushed down on the laugh that wanted to come out of him. “Well, if it is a matter of Akielon honour,” he said. And when Laurent rolled his eyes he refrained, by a heroic effort of willpower, from pulling down the silly mask and kissing him where they stood. He moved over to a waiting horse and mounted up, watching from the corner of his eye as Laurent’s strong lean body did the same. At a subtle signal from black-gloved fingers, they rode out.
Laurent led them out of the castle through its wide main gate, and there was no noise, no sign of protest. Damen, left to his own devices, fell back on an old hobby: trying to divine the mechanisms of Laurent’s plan as its parts unfolded before him. He guessed now that Laurent had kept a small force in reserve in the township of Marlas, and that these men had subdued the armed guards on the castle grounds. With Akielos and Vere so distrustful of each other, neither royal party had wanted the other to bring more men to this meeting than was strictly necessary. A critical mistake. Then again, nobody had any reason to predict an attack from an outside force.
They rode hard through the city, clattering and loud; there would be plenty of witnesses the next day to testify to the size and disruptiveness of the group, but the darkness would hide the finer details. A few of the city watchmen they passed called out to them, annoyed, but none were prepared to face down a band of twenty riders, so the journey proceeded with no obstacles. Before Damen could blink, they had whipped through the city gate, which was more concerned with those coming in than going out — and then they were on the open road, picking up speed as they moved southeast.
The main road was wide and well-trodden and already bore the marks of a hundred riders. There would be no tracks for the royal party to follow. After half an hour, Damen saw one of the men turn off the road, urging his mount down a smaller trail. He looked over at Laurent, whose face was the picture of calm. Slowly, over the next hour and a half of riding, their party whittled itself down in this manner, until only two of the black-clad men remained with Laurent and Damen. Despite the darkness and the disguises, Damen thought he made out Jord’s stocky shoulders and Lazar’s lean, lazy horsemanship.
He had continued to turn Laurent’s plan in the back of his mind, starting from what he knew, then extrapolating. With the royal party forced to pare down its usual allowance of guards, he could imagine that Laurent’s Prince’s Guard would be deemed less important than the King’s and Crown Prince’s men. Easy enough, then, to set them up in Marlas without anyone missing them, without rousing suspicion. Now all they had to do was make it to the nearest empty Veretian keep and vouch for each other, and nobody would suspect their part in this night.
Easy enough, but the ultimate reasoning still evaded Damen’s grasp. The fact that Laurent had come with them — not just outside the castle but outside the city — made it unlikely that he would attempt to go back. Far more likely he had staged his own kidnapping first, and then made his way to the Akielon side of the keep. That thought was a relief, anyway. If nothing else it put off the problem of imminent war; it would be a little harder for either side to raise arms against the other when both had suffered a kidnapping.
Clearly, Laurent planned to return them to court in a way which would alleviate tensions between their countries. The obvious guess was Auguste: to have him come riding in just when things seemed bleakest, conducting a heroic rescue to wipe away years of resentment. It was a decent plan, but Damen’s mind remained unsettled, not quite satisfied. It seemed almost too simple for Laurent, too straightforward. And a single favour might accrue goodwill, but it was hardly binding, no matter how spectacular. It would fade after a few months, especially if there were no casualties to speak of.
While he had been absorbed in his thoughts, they had turned off the main road and were travelling through thick forest. The trail in front of them was so narrow it sometimes seemed invisible, but Damen’s horse took it placidly, even in the shaded dark.
Ahead of him, Laurent looked back, and their gazes caught. Always prudent, he still had not removed the mask from his face. Even so his eyes were smiling at Damen.
“We’re nearly there,” he said, voice soft. Damen nodded, curious. In carrying out his royal duties he had stayed all over Delpha, but his visits to Marlas kept him within the township itself; he had never wandered so far from the city.
The path widened. ‘There’ turned out to be a small cottage, tucked away in a little clearing where the moonlight which poured over it made it silver and ethereal in the darkness. Laurent dismounted, and when Damen did the same, Jord and Lazar came forward to take their horses. They saluted to Laurent, then cantered away, leaving Damen and Laurent alone together.
Even the long ride had not ruffled Laurent’s composure. He met Damen’s eyes, beckoned with a look, then turned and went inside. Damen followed obediently, casting a quick eye over what he could see of the surroundings. It was simple, a single room, but its proportions were generous; the hearth was wide, and there was space enough for a solid table and a large bed heaped with blankets.
Laurent’s hands came up to unfasten his mask and pull down his hood. It was a brief sweet shock to see his face, his mussed golden hair, after hours of wanting, of anticipation. He darted a glance up at Damen, the line of his mouth soft.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. When Damen only blinked, he touched his own wrist.
“Oh,” said Damen, looking down. He’d forgotten about them, though they still bore the faint marks of the rope.
“I suppose that’s my answer,” said Laurent.
“It doesn’t hurt,” said Damen. He meant to press Laurent on the finer details of his outlandish plan, but then he looked back up. His eyes caught, and his mouth spoke on its own: “What on earth are you wearing?”
Laurent’s hands paused. “I was kidnapped out of my bed.” He had undone the black clothes to reveal loose white garments underneath, with barely any of that complicated lacing which seemed to define Veretian fashion; he shrugged off the blacks completely now, shook them out and folded them loosely. His remaining clothes were thin enough that underneath them the shape of his body was plainly visible. “They were easier to wear underneath the black,” said Laurent. “And it will conjure a more vulnerable image of me in the eyes of the court.”
Of course Laurent had put thought into the wardrobe of his kidnapping. It was strangely charming to see him like this. When they managed a rendezvous, Laurent would come dressed in his day clothes, of course, and change back into them in the morning, same as Damen. On the rare occasions that they could both get away for a longer interval, they would make use of the robes provided at the inns. This was new, and despite their familiarity with each other the sight felt somehow intimate, vulnerable. Very sweet.
“You’re looking again,” said Laurent.
“I like your nightclothes,” said Damen mildly. Laurent grumbled nonsense under his breath, drawing his hands up to rub his upper arms.
Damen let himself smile, then went over to lay a fire in the hearth. After a moment Laurent’s soft footsteps followed him over the stone floor. One hand landed on Damen’s shoulder, an absent, affectionate touch that warmed his stomach before any fire had been lit.
When the hearth was well and truly ablaze, Damen stood, and Laurent’s hand slid down his arm. He was even more beautiful in the firelight, long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. For a moment they only looked at each other, the moment stretching out warm and slow between them.
Then Laurent blinked, as though he had just remember something not entirely pleasant, and stepped backwards. “How did you know I wanted a fire?” he asked.
“What?”
Laurent walked across the room to the small pile of black clothes he had shed and placed on the table. Damen watched as he brought them back across the room and started feeding them carefully to the blaze, obliterating the proof of his disguise.
“I didn’t know,” he said. Laurent blinked up at him, subtly enquiring. Damen said, “You looked cold.”
Laurent’s face changed, softening with tenderness. He looked back down at the fire, which did not entirely hide his blush. “I see,” he said. The last scrap of cloth curled into black ash.
Damen dared to step forward, to draw his hands over Laurent’s body, from the strong shoulders down to the narrow waist. Laurent looped his arms around Damen’s neck and kissed him.
It was always glorious. It was always better than Damen remembered. Laurent fit against him so well, so perfectly, as though their bodies had been made for each other. Damen’s hands found Laurent’s waistband and began working his shirt out from underneath it, seeking skin. Laurent brought his hands up to cradle Damen’s face, to slide through his hair.
Two months since they’d last seen each other, since they’d last touched like this, skin to skin. Far too long. Damen slid a hand along the small of Laurent’s back, feeling the little shiver which was yielded to him, absorbing it with his body. He wanted a kiss for every day they hadn’t seen each other, every hour.
He satisfied himself with one more — two more — and then pulled away, kissing Laurent’s cheek, his temple. Laurent’s eyes were closed, shoulders moving with his shallow breaths.
“Damen,” he said. When he opened his eyes their expression was preoccupied, troubled. Not showily, but Damen could tell.
“What is it?” he asked, quiet. “Did something not go to plan?” Laurent looked up at him, and the tension in his gaze eased a little.
“No,” he said. “It’s nothing to worry about. Something I still have to do.”
“Can I help?”
“You’re going to be,” said Laurent, “a rather big part of it.” And his expression battled between humour and apprehension, an odd combination on his elegant face.
Damen tugged him down in front of the fire so that they were sitting facing each other, their knees touching, and changed his approach. It was always best to tease information out of Laurent. It helped that it was enjoyable, a delicate operation which always held some kind of reward, a glimpse into his fascinating mind. “Is now a good time to ask about this plan of yours? Am I right to guess Auguste will come in to rescue us?”
A smile finally touched Laurent’s face, like the gleam of a jewel. “Yes,” he said.
“From — what,” said Damen, remembering what Laurent had said in the castle, “a some kind of revolutionary group centred in Delpha?”
Laurent hummed. “A group who believe they are doing what’s right for the province. An independence movement, to be exact.”
“Independence? For Delpha?” Incredulously.
“Exactly,” said Laurent. “Perhaps the one cause that our families can agree they don’t support.” He took Damen’s hand, tracing the lines and planes of it. Damen had to concentrate to catch his next words, though Laurent was speaking normally. “The independence movement thought this summit was an empty gesture, but heard too many rumours that negotiations were progressing strongly. They decided to take action to make their demands known.”
“Progressing strongly?” echoed Damen.
“It will peeve everyone,” said Laurent. His sly little smile was a perfect tease. “To have this drastic action taken against them for an effort they haven’t even really put in. My family will discover a letter tomorrow morning that was left in my chambers. And a townswoman will come forward to say that she overheard a group of men making these plans.”
“A pretty touch,” said Damen, and won another little smile from Laurent. He was still holding Damen’s hand, thumb rubbing gently over the inside of his wrist. “And after enough time has passed, Auguste will come to rescue us?”
The tiniest hesitation. “Yes,” said Laurent. “What do you think?”
“Well, I think it’s a little late to be asking my opinion,” said Damen. “But I don’t see why it wouldn’t work. Especially if you have some clause that you want to add to the treaty, some immediate step like that.” It wouldn’t matter if the lustre of Auguste’s bloodless rescue wore off quickly, then, because the goal would have been achieved, signed into law. “Do you have something in mind?”
“Yes,” said Laurent, but didn’t elaborate. Damen watched him sit and think for a moment, that sharp blue gaze turned inward, before Laurent looked up and shook himself out of his thoughts.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Or tired?”
Damen blinked a little, almost taken aback. He realised belatedly that it must be past midnight; he wasn’t tired at all. The physical exertions of the past few hours had only served to get his blood up.
“Do we have food?”
“Some,” said Laurent, and used Damen’s shoulder to lever himself into a standing position. “Jord or Lazar will come up every two days to deliver more. The nearest village is only half an hour’s ride.”
But a difficult ride, Damen would wager, through the thick forest. He followed Laurent to the small pantry, watching as he sliced the bread and fruit. His trainers would scold him for eating so late, but — and he thought this with a pulse of guilty pleasure — it wasn’t as though he had anywhere else to be tomorrow. No duties and no obligations.
“I’ve left the exact timeline to his discretion,” said Laurent to the bread. “But it shouldn’t take too long for Auguste to come and fetch us. A week or so. Two at most.”
Two weeks alone together in a cottage in the woods sounded like a dream. Laurent slid him a little look from beneath his lashes. “I wondered if you would complain,” he said. “That he gets to be the heroic one.”
“I think I’m getting the better side of the bargain,” said Damen.
“I suppose Akielos has a rather different image of kidnapping, also,” said Laurent, tone arch. Damen made a quizzical noise, and Laurent looked at him again, absurdly lovely in the firelight, his mouth begging to be kissed again. “I seem to recall that abduction was not considered such a bad thing, in that book you sent me.”
“The — oh!” Damen laughed. It had been a birthday present for Laurent, a collection of Akielon poetry, Akielon stories. He’d had them translated and bound last year, and it was true there had been a number of stolen brides and stolen husbands in those tales. “That’s true. By Isthiman standards, tonight has been very romantic.”
“Not by Iosian standards?”
“The custom was only ever prevalent on Isthima,” said Damen.
“What a shame.” A low drawl. Damen wanted to push the table aside and tackle him to the ground.
Laurent met his gaze and heat flared in his eyes, blue as the heart of a flame. For a moment Damen was sure they would be retiring — but then Laurent looked away, tension returning to the set of his shoulders, tracing a design on the table just for something to do.
Damen frowned. Laurent was rarely this nervous about anything. He sat back, resettled in his chair, and cast about for some other topic. “How did you find this place?”
A blink. “What?”
“The house,” said Damen. “Don’t tell me you had it built here.”
Laurent’s mouth twitched. “No,” he said. “I wish I’d thought of that. It’s much more pedestrian — I sent my men out to remote townships to look for good prospects.”
“This has been in your mind for some time, then,” said Damen, and Laurent’s eyes flashed back up to look at him.
“Yes,” he said. “Some time.”
Flustered, Damen forgot that he had meant to refrain from asking further about the plan which seemed to have Laurent so on edge. All he could think to say was, “How are we being treated by the Delphan separatists?”
The tension returned, a series of tiny signs: the twitch of Laurent’s index finger, the slight hitch in his breath, the brief press of his lips. “How do you think,” he said, very nearly hitting a natural tone, “they should treat us?”
Watching him, Damen said, “Very gently,” seeing the way Laurent’s brows had drawn minutely together. “If we don’t want people to chase them.” And discover that the entire group was a figment of Laurent’s imagination. It would be difficult enough to stop their fathers from combing the woods in any case.
“Yes,” said Laurent. He rubbed his finger against the grain of the table, and then looked abruptly up at Damen. “But I’m being unfair. Our story will depend on — the thing I still have to do.”
Slowly, leaving Laurent time to back away, Damen put his hand over Laurent’s, fingers resting on the fine column of his wrist. “What’s that? Tell me, sweetheart.”
Laurent shifted his hand, twined their fingers together. Damen’s heart was beating irregularly in his chest. Laurent took one breath, another, and then said, “Didn’t you wonder why it wasn’t — you and Auguste, in this cabin?”
Damen blinked. “Yes,” he said slowly. It had occurred to him while they were still on the road, riding madly away from Marlas. The two of them were of a status, both heirs to their kingdoms, which would put both royal parties in the castle instantly on a more even footing; and Laurent was just as capable of rescuing them as Auguste was. More importantly, in this alternate plan, Laurent would have remained at the court, and been able to better control the narrative of both the kidnapping and the rescue. “But I thought —” He stopped; it sounded egotistical even in his head.
“You thought I just couldn’t pass up the chance for two weeks of sex with you?” asked Laurent, dry.
“I don’t know if I could have passed it up,” said Damen, even if he wouldn’t have put it quite like that.
“No,” said Laurent. It wasn’t entirely clear what he was referring to. He looked back down at their entwined hands, drew a tender thumb over Damen’s skin. “It’s true that it would have been a good — opportunity, to build the relationship between the two of you. You could have come out of this ordeal as friends, good friends, publicly, and nobody would have questioned a newfound commitment to working more closely. It would have made things easier, eventually.”
He always talked more when he was nervous. Damen stayed silent, holding onto Laurent’s hand, feeling the swordsman’s calluses on the insides of his scholar’s fingers.
“But that made me think,” said Laurent, “that it would be a good opportunity to build — any relationship. Any potential relationship.”
“Yes,” said Damen, when the silence had stretched out for a beat. He felt, more than saw, the brief instinct to pull back which Laurent stifled. His hand twitched once in Damen’s and then was still.
“If you’d had a pretty younger sister,” said Laurent, “it could have been her and Auguste here together, falling in love during a period of mutual captivity.”
For a moment the words didn’t penetrate. Then they rearranged themselves in Damen’s mind, revealing what had been left to implication. He stiffened, his spine straightening, his skin prickling ecstatically all over. Laurent wouldn’t meet his eyes. His full lips were pressed into a tight line.
“Laurent,” Damen said. He could hear the delighted richness in his own voice. “Laurent.”
Laurent darted a glance up at him and then struggled to look away. Damen brought their tangled hands up and kissed his fingers, his knuckles. The inside of his wrist. Laurent’s breath stuttered out of him.
“It doesn’t have to be — we could forge a friendship, also,” he said to the far wall over Damen’s shoulder. “In captivity. That would also benefit our countries.”
“I’m going to be the envy of all Akielos,” said Damen, “with such a clever husband by my side.” And felt, when Laurent’s amazed blue gaze met his, the strange soreness in his cheeks which meant that he was smiling too widely. He couldn’t have controlled his expression just then if his life depended on it. This feeling was bursting out of him. “You didn’t really think I’d refuse you?”
“No, I — I don’t know,” said Laurent. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It should have been you and Auguste in here together.”
“But you couldn’t resist the chance to make love to me,” said Damen, luxuriating in it, in Laurent’s fierce blotchy blush.
“The other plan would have led to other opportunities in the future,” Laurent said. “Once you and Auguste solidified the alliance. I could have waited. It was a risk to do it like this.” Pushing the words out: “I worried that it was just the secrecy,” he said. “The thrill.”
It took something out of him, to admit that. Damen tugged, and Laurent rose from his chair to settle on Damen’s lap, arms coming around Damen’s neck.
“It’s you I love,” said Damen. Brushed a strand of hair from Laurent’s face. “Any way I can have you.”
“Every way, now,” Laurent murmured. He leaned forward, but not into a kiss; just to press his face to Damen’s jaw, sweetly vulnerable. Damen’s hand came up to caress the curve of his collarbone, the open nape of his neck, and they stayed like that for several long, lovely minutes, basking in the warmth of the fire and the immutable fact of their togetherness.
Eventually Laurent turned his head a little to speak into the tiny space between them. “I thought I could fall ill, perhaps. As a result of being kidnapped in my nightclothes. And then you can nurse me devotedly, which is the reason you don’t try to escape, and we can fall in love… It needs a little elaboration. I’d prefer for it to be the other way around, but I don’t know if anyone would believe that you could ever fall ill.”
“We have time,” said Damen. Not just two weeks, but all the time in the world. It was a heady thought.
“And I thought, afterwards, if Akielos can stand to admit that Delpha is Veretian for a few months, I could bring it to you in my dowry, because I’ll be the lower partner in the marriage… It’s not Auguste I have to convince, but the councillors. I think they would agree if you would consider changes to your succession. You will have no trueborn heirs from this marriage. Auguste will take a wife eventually. His second child — if his wife was Akielon, or partly Akielon — would that be acceptable, do you think? I know it is your mother’s bloodline that your country follows, but your father —”
Damen said, “Laurent,” and the words cut off into an inquisitive hum. Damen tightened his grip on Laurent’s waist and said, “You have kidnapped me very romantically in the Isthiman style. You proposed to me. We have a week to discuss this. Will you kiss me now, and take me to bed?”
Laurent sat up, his expression morphing into pleasure, almost glowing with warmth. His smile was small, still, but the look in his eyes was so wildly, tenderly happy that it took Damen’s breath away. “Well, when you put it that way,” he said, “how can I resist you?”