Chapter Text
The night was warm and bright, buzzing with insect song and the hooting of owls, the sound of wings fluttering in the distance. Even entering the old forest couldn’t dampen Damen’s spirit. They’ve been riding for a week, and now, finally, the scenery had started to change: they were in Vere proper, and this was now an adventure.
The dressing-up was not to his liking. The old priest had insisted, and Father took his word, as always: there are dangers, he’d rasped in his tinny voice, the likes of which we cannot even imagine in the Veretian woods. Stories of ghosts and ghouls and banshees, of spirits that would suck a man’s soul dry. All nonsense, all so silly he could cry, but Damen allowed the servants to stow his royal pin in the guard’s satchel, and sow his signet ring and golden chain into the inseam of his jacket. This way no one could tell he was Damianos, prince of Akielos: this way, according to the priest, the spirits would not know how to curse him. Pish-posh and poppycock, as Jokaste would have said. Only he didn’t ask for her opinion before he left. He didn’t even bid her goodbye.
Out here, in the forest, he didn’t need to think of it. A world away from home, the woods thickened before his very eyes, dark and foreboding, and enticing. The sky was a sheet of stars, visible in patches in between the treetops. They were to go twenty miles more before breaking for the night; Damen rode leisurely, taking it all in. He was free, away from Jokaste and her questions, and her nagging. For now, all he needed was to ride, to fix the problems in need of fixing, to help restore peace and prosperity. Then the questions. Then—the rest.
Silence descended upon him quite suddenly. Damen hadn’t noticed he’d grown that far from the rest of the group—where had Pallas gone? The swish of his mare’s tail was almost still visible in the sliver of light through the branches. Almost. He was, in fact, alone, with only the hoofbeats of his own horse in his ears, and a distinct feeling, a chill in the back of his neck.
The forest grew too thick to canter—Damen took the reins in his hands and pulled. Something was wrong. In the dizzying darkness, all the sounds seemed to dim; no owls, no insects. Not the remainder of his riding party, thirty-men strong, who couldn’t be traveling any faster than him through the thicket.
His horse was in no better state, jittery with every movement, tired and uneasy. Passage through the trees was difficult, each bark as wide as three men, roots gnarly and tricky on uneven ground. Ancient woods, the priest had said. Branches shot higher and higher above him, blocking the starlight—it didn’t take much longer to admit defeat. They needed to leave the forest and take the longer route down the coast. But first he had to find the others. With a glance at his anxious horse, Damen decided to carry on foot.
He only had to walk for two minutes (with that strange, tingling sensation in his back) before he reached a small clearing, bathed in moonlight. And in it—in it was something that stole Damen’s breath away. He had to revisit his previous thoughts about spirits and ghosts: the—man?—before him couldn’t be entirely human. The way he stood, tall and sure; the way light wrapped him, silvery-pale, as an offering; the cool, assessing look of his blue, blue eyes, just as bright, just as heady.
Damen took a step, and then another. Stopped when a sword, previously resting against a strong thigh, came to point neatly at his neck.
“That’s close enough,” said the man, or the dream. His voice was light. Damen was already hopelessly charmed.
“Who are you?” he asked, hopeless. And charmed.
“What do I want,” the man said, “would be the more pertinent question, don’t you think?”
“I’ll take any answer you’re willing to give.”
He wore Veretian clothing, tight-laced and dark-coloured. His hair was braided around one lean shoulder. He was, all at once, a prince from an ancient fairy-tale, and a young nymph of the woods. Damen wondered if he could touch him, or if his fingers would pass through the silver-spun figure, like a vision.
“Forty-two,” the vision said evenly. “And Thursdays, more often than not.”
“What?”
A smile. Damen’s heart went a whole loop in his chest. “You said you’ll take any answer. Were these not to your liking?”
“They were perfect. Have you any others?”
One fair eyebrow crinkled. Damen half-forgot to think of the riding party, carrying on in this enchanted forest without him; of Kastor waiting to meet him at the keep; of the warnings, grave dangers, the likes of which we cannot even imagine. His grip on the sword had gone loose. He did not move to adjust it.
“Raspberry, if it’s done right,” the stranger said. “Jasmine. Gold—no, blue. Oh, and wasps, but that’s a secret.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Damen swore. “And your name? Is that a secret too?”
A pause. Then, in voice as clear as starlight, “I am Laurent. It is no secret, around these parts; perhaps it is still so in Akielos.”
Damen smiled appreciatively. “So my accent gave me away.”
“Less your accent, and more the cut of your clothes. Clearly not locally made, and far too fine for a casual stroll. With your being here tonight, and your—appearance,” quietly, as if it was an admission and not mere statement, “the facts all point to the same conclusion. You didn’t ask me what I want.”
Considering that his accent was, in fact, impeccable, and that his clothes were cut in perfect Veretian fashion, Laurent was very clever to recognise him as Akielon. Damen found himself grinning.
“I assumed you would tell me what you wanted when you wished for me to know.”
“Such a gentleman. Are all Akielon nobility so accommodating, or is that just your personal style?”
“Nobility? What makes you say that?”
Laurent just stared.
“All right, all right. I don’t think all Akielon nobility is quite like me, no.”
Laurent tilted his head to the side, bearing his long, long neck. “How far have tales of these forests travelled? What do you know of them, in Akielos?”
“You mean the ghost stories?” Damen allowed himself a chuckle. “We’ve heard of them.”
“And yet you don’t seem too perturbed.”
Damen said, “Should I be?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You see, those who pass these sacred grounds must pay a tax, my noble sir.”
“A—tax?”
“To keep the spirits at bay,” he nodded seriously. “To keep them from wishing anyone harm.”
Laurent’s sword was still raised in that perfectly-poised way. Damen felt silly. “You intend to fight me?”
“Fight you?” in a mock-gasp. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Not unless you made me.”
Damen cast a quick glance around. The trees were thick, and it was difficult to survey the surroundings outside the pool of moonlight.
“I do not wish to fight,” he admitted. “I would much rather discuss this with you, man to man. My group is nearby, and I would not like to see them harm you.”
Laurent blinked demurely. “How sweet. And inaccurate. Your group are well on their way south. They think they lost you on the outskirts of the forest.”
“What?” Damen’s heart lurched. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I have eyes and ears all over these woods. Don’t make this harder on yourself than you must, my lord. Pay your tax, and you may return to them.”
“May?” Damen repeated. “You mean you’ll attempt to keep me detained otherwise?”
“I mean,” Laurent said patiently, “that if you don’t do as I say, we will fight. Then I will take my tax. No one is happy, and your group ends up in a useless search all over the forest, never reaching your destination in time. Clearly not the best of outcomes.”
“And I assume you know our destination, too?” Damen asked sourly. Of course, if it came to a fight, he’d be able to subdue Laurent in no time—in absence of spirit intervention—but the idea didn’t seem at all appealing. He realised, with a startled bang, that he is simply being robbed. By an impossibly beautiful thief.
“I know near everything,” said Laurent. Damen was torn between a snort and a moan.
He swallowed the sentiment. Considered his options. Crossed and uncrossed his arms. “I’m afraid,” he said evenly, “that I have nothing of value to give you for tax. Even if we fought, and you somehow won, you’ll be walking away empty-handed.”
“I’ll have your sword,” Laurent countered. “And your horse. And your clothes, made of silk, which could fetch a nice sum at the village. If I somehow won. Also, I believe you do possess something of value other than those.”
“And what would that be?”
“Remains to be seen,” Laurent said. “But it is hidden in your jacket, and you will give it to me before long. That is, if you wish to make it to your prince’s side in time.”
Something fell, heavy, in his chest: how did he know? About Kastor, about the signet ring and the chain in Damen’s jacket? In an oddly-quiet stretch of dark forest, where his company should be, where they weren’t. Damen frowned.
Laurent arched an eyebrow, then gestured broadly with both arms.
“If you wish to do this,” he suggested, “let us not waste time. I find idle chit-chat unendurably grating.”
The worry for his men mounted, cresting; concern for his brother, besieged in this foreign land, with these strange people who seemed to glow in the moonlight; anger with himself, for being distracted by a pretty face and a sharp tongue, all merged together into determination. If Laurent wanted to fight, then a fight he shall have. Damen raised his sword. Nodded.
And they… fought.
It went just about as everything else in this place: oddly.
Most odd was Laurent. He was not a slight man, but not exactly powerfully built, and his movements, even now, still retained their casual grace. He should have been knocked down by the first real strike from Damen’s sword. And yet.
And yet, when Damen struck, he found himself parried.
Damen was—not to be vain, but he was considered a very good swordsman. He defeated Prince Auguste in a duel, all these years ago; had defeated just about any opponent he met since the age of thirteen. And while he had no concerns for the outcome of this fight, it still took him by surprise, possibly arrogantly, that it didn’t end far quicker.
More surprising still was Laurent’s style. A strange amalgamation of Veretian forms and Vaskian sword manoeuvres, interspersed with moves that were distinctly neither. He was quick, and light, and almost otherworldly under the moonlight; sharp, and fearless, and impossibly graceful. It was a shock to see him; to see him so close, finding Laurent under his guard again and again, forcing him back even when Damen was obviously the better fighter. He blamed the forest. He blamed the reflection of silvery light in clear eyes.
Athletic though he may be, Laurent was no match for Damen’s strength. And Damen thought, enough blunt force should have been enough to bring him down. Thought wrong. His thrusts were blocked, swirled, forced through strange tempo, through calculated moves Damen could not see any pattern to. And Laurent—laughed, bright, the sound of it ringing in the clearing between them. He was good. He was good. But not good enough.
“Are you going to start fighting me anytime soon?” Damen asked, surprised to hear his voice coming out pleased. After sitting so tensely on horseback for days on end, it was good to be moving. Somehow, infuriatingly, it was all the better to be moving to match Laurent’s strikes. There was something almost… magic about it, Damen thought to himself, amused and outraged, as he forced Laurent back to the treeline. Somehow, Laurent made being robbed a splendid exercise.
“You should probably be made aware,” Laurent said, voice strained, “that your prince’s call was false.”
“What?” Damen let his sword stall for a moment. Righted himself when Laurent smirked and came charging. “What—” the clang of two blades meeting—“do you mean?”
“It is known,” Laurent said, and met a thrust with a tilt of his sword. It still sent him backwards, but he didn’t look too distressed. “A Veretian agent sent the missive. The bastard Prince Kastor,” had to stop as Damen sent him to his arse on the ground, wiped his brow on a sleeve, and hopped back up, “is currently in Vask, feasting himself stupid.”
“That’s—no,” Damen shook his head, then doubled backwards when Laurent came upon him. “That’s not possible. I got the note. Written in Kastor’s own hand.”
To that, Laurent only shrugged. “Perhaps he’s in alliance with the Veretian.”
“What alliance? Akielos supports King Auguste. It’s for his sake that King Theomedes sent Kastor to Vere.”
“It is? And why did Kastor call for you?”
Damen frowned, and busied himself with correcting his pose, for he already expected the blow from Laurent. It was becoming increasingly clear that Laurent was using this to distract him. How very Veretian of him.
“Kastor called on his men for assistance. There was a fight. He’s stuck in Ravenel.”
“Hmm,” Laurent said. “No, he isn’t.”
“You claim this to be a lie? What would be the point? Why lure me—his men, here, if it wasn’t for assistance with the political—upheaval?”
“What would be the point, indeed.” Laurent demonstrated with the tip of his sword. Damen’s mind was reeling.
“You—” and suddenly there was more strength behind his sword, a newfound intention that didn’t entirely live there before, “how dare you make these accusations—”
“What accusations exactly?” asked Laurent, now panting. “Just so I know you followed in full.”
“That he—that—you accuse him of lying, and that, simply isn’t—”
Their swords met in the air. Then Laurent’s dropped, and he was holding his wrist like it was sore. His face was grinning.
“Is now a good time,” he asked, “to tell you you’re surrounded?”
“What?”
“Surrounded,” he repeated slowly. “Do you need a translation? A quick run of the concept?”
“I think you’re lying,” Damen said, mostly out of spite.
“Test me.” His voice had gone low and dangerous. “Raise your sword.”
“No,” Damen said, nonsensically. “What did you mean, about Kastor?”
“Raise your sword,” Laurent said again.
“What did you mean. About the note being from—about Kastor being in Vask.”
“You’re awful at playing pretend, Exalted,” Laurent sighed, a long move with his whole torso, ending at his shoulders. “Truly. A disaster to watch.”
“You know me,” Damen said, slowly, too slowly, catching on. The dark woods and an ethereal creature bathed in light. Sword fights and the mention of Kastor. “You said that on purpose. You knew who I was.”
Laurent levelled him a glance so sharp it could cut stone. “Of course I knew who you were. Of course I said it on purpose. Raise your weapon and test if I’m lying, Prince Damianos.”
Instead, Damen let his sword fall to his side. His head was pounding. “You have proof?” he asked, his voice lethal. “For your outrageous, treasonous accusations?”
“I am not your countryman,” Laurent said stiffly. “It is not treason for me to tell you anything about Kastor. Let alone the truth. As for proof, yes, I can provide it, given some time and the proper incentive. You will still have to pay my tax. And you’ll have to leave your guards behind.”
“Your tax!” Damen shouted, hands in the air, so beyond reason he felt faint. “Fine! I’ll pay your tax! Veretian greed really knows no bound! I’ll spare you your money, and anything else—including your life—if you can prove your bold claims to me. If you can’t, then I’ll enact my sentence. And no matter how sweetly you’re built, I will not spare you should—”
An arrow trilled through the air, inches away from Damen’s nose, and landed, with a thick thump, in the bark of the nearest tree. Silence followed.
Then Laurent sighed. “A bit late for that.”
“I was getting restless,” said a voice from behind the thicket. Damen felt his blood curdling in his veins. “He did threaten you.”
Damen stared between Laurent’s resigned face and the bush, where he could see nothing. “Who’s there? What coward have you hiding back there?”
“Surrounded, Exalted,” Laurent said, again in that obnoxiously patient tone. “You do know the meaning of the word? These are my men. They bear arms. They will attack should you so much as threaten me, apparently, which is a very new, very low bar for them.” A glare to the darkness. “He raised a sword at me moments ago.”
“Ach, a blade you can handle,” said that same voice. Damen thought he might be losing his mind.
“But not a lame verbal threat hindered on too many variables in an undefined future?” Laurent sounded, for the first time tonight, slightly aggravated. It disappeared just as quickly. “Fine. Fine. Hands behind your back, now, Damianos-Exalted, and I would advise you against trying to fight, or even threatening me with your very weak words,” said more to the forest than to him. “I’ll warn you in advance about the blindfold. You will be our guest at the camp, meaning no weapons, no fights, and for goodness' sake, stop pouting like a child. If you want your precious proof, you’ll do well to follow my word.”
Damen bristled, and tried not to show it. “Blindfold?” he still asked as Laurent circled him.
“Blindfold,” said Laurent. “That is, if you wish to come.”
And he waited, like that, for Damen to decide. Damen, who must have lost his mind upon entering the forest, seeing as he was now considering taking his offer. Leaving his men behind, blindfolded in unknown hands. The hands of a treasonous thief. All for, what, the baseless accusations of some dream he found in the woods?
Accusations that could never, ever be true? Accusations that did not at all ring of Jokaste’s questions, of Nik’s warning? Accusations that Damen absolutely needed refuted, even if only for his own peace of mind?
If his brother wasn’t here, and was, as Laurent, in Vask of all places, had lured Damen into the thick of the forest for… nefarious, indiscernible reasons… then…
“I’ll come with you,” Damen decided, and surrendered his sheathed sword to Laurent’s pale hands.
Only one way to find out. And Damen didn’t really need a sword to win his freedom.