Chapter Text
Lunch wasn’t much more impressive than breakfast. A flat patty made of, possibly, turnip was added to a lean slice of meat, with two tired radishes and a mug of ale. Damen took it, and said nothing. Around him, campers were coming and going: there wasn’t enough room at the table to fit them all in one sitting.
Their conversation was riveting, and not at all illuminating. Damen realised he didn’t know much about country life, Veretian country life even more so, but the chat of the villagers around was baffling. ‘Sheriff’ here and ‘cabbage’ there and ‘prize money’ and ‘the pathway’ to something unintelligible. The only thing he could gather from their chat was fear.
“What are all these people doing here?” Damen asked Lazar, who had been watching him take it all in. “They’re not all thieves.”
“No,” he agreed into his cup.
“Neither are most of them fighters.”
“Not unless they’re forced to be, Highness.”
Damen blinked. Swallowed. Blinked again. Then, “You’re not saying Laurent is forcing them to be here?”
He remembered the gentle tone Laurent took with the farmer girls. Surely… surely? What could he be so sure of, about this man he didn’t know and didn’t trust? The most he knew about him was that Laurent was a criminal.
Lazar made a gurgling sort of sound into his mug. “Spirits, you think you have us all figured out, don’t you.” He shook his head, looked around. “Greedy, lawless Veretians, is that it?”
“You are thieves,” Damen said, unimpressed. “Living lawlessly in the woods.”
“Aye, well, there you have it.”
And he refused to say another word the whole meal. Which didn’t take long at all, seeing as they were to clear their seats as quickly as possible. Then Damen was left to trudge after Jord, who appeared at the tent entrance with a frown.
Damen, it would seem, was now to follow this grumpy man rather than that one, and together they ventured past the camp and to the fabled pigpen, where they were, apparently, to keep the pigs for the afternoon. On their way they passed another structure, wooden boards sealed shut and quite large, guarded by two broad-shouldered men with swords.
“What’s in there?” Damen asked, very carefully casual.
“Nothing,” Jord grumbled. Which was as good as saying, everything important. “We’re just up here. There’s a hole in the fence, which we’re to repair, and—are you listening, Exalted? I know this isn’t really what you’re used to.”
Damen, who was speechless for the sudden, ungodly stench, silently agreed.
Still: to re-build a hole in a fence (which was better described as ‘trampled down pieces of wood’), was something he could, theoretically, do. There were only five pigs, all of which Damen met in the morning, and they were hiding from the heat in a puddle of mud. Damen wished, for a fragment of a second, to be able to do the same; then remembered his station, remembered himself, and desisted. Wiped his brow on an ever-dirtier sleeve, and got to work.
Working with Jord wasn’t too straining. The man was diligent, and most importantly quiet. It allowed Damen the opportunity to listen to a large group of campers, a little further away in the forest, training with swords; also to sneak calculated looks down the path, where the mysterious structure stood.
From the training he gathered that some of these men actually knew how to fight. Most did not. They were being trained, for what, he couldn’t tell, and why, he couldn’t fathom. To send these people onto battle would be to doom them all.
From the path he gathered that no one went in or out of the guarded structure all afternoon. The guards had changed three hours past midday, when Damen and Jord broke for a stale slice of bread and ale. The bread came from Jord’s pocket, a secret bank Damen has not previously considered; the ale, from Orlant, who came to see how they fared with the fence.
“You’ve done some decent work,” he said to Jord.
Jord, who was a surprisingly fair man, grunted. “The prince did most of the heavy lifting.”
Both men eyed each other with what Damen could only describe as slyness. What did they think his game here was, he didn’t know. Was fairly certain he didn’t want to know. Orlant joined them as they tied the wooden posts together tightly, and as evening descended upon the forest, they had finished. Oddly satisfying, Damen thought, begrudgingly, as he looked at the product of their labour. Odd, odd indeed.
Walking back towards the camp in twilight made for a giddy sort of feeling in his chest. Orlant lit his lantern; in between the trees, what visible patches of sky were bathed in gold. Damen was filthy, and tired, sweatier than after a rigorous training session and so covered in mud that he could have just come from a battlefield. His arms ached from the strange work of lumbering wood, and his stomach growled with hunger. He was utterly, bone-deeply exhausted, looking forward to and wary of supper, looking forward to and wary of Laurent’s answer.
And dusk had a special charm to it. Lanterns made the path ahead of them in small dots of light, below the sky which was getting deeper and deeper in pinks and golds and purples.
Of course this was the setting where he found Laurent. Of course he had to stand there, in a small patch of grass between the trees, tall and proud without a speck of dirt or a hint of exhaustion. Beautiful was no longer a word fit to describe him: under the light of the setting sun he was devastating.
“Damianos-Exalted,” Laurent turned to them, his face serious, “I’ve news.”
“Oh,” wisely. It was some miracle that he even managed a word. Then, as the graveness of the tone registered: “Your messenger has returned.”
This horrible plummeting in his belly, a burst of sour flavour in his mouth. Looked to Laurent helplessly, and saw something move there, a crease between perfect brows that wasn’t there before.
“Not that.” Laurent drew closer, and with a wave of a hand sent Jord and Orlant away. Then it was just the two of them, the sky, the soft light of fires in the distance. “It’s your guard. The men that followed you out of Ios. They seem to have decided to continue without you, rather than return home. They are now five days away from Ravenel.”
“Well,” thoughts ran to and fro in his head, clashing against one another, and he was too breathless to untangle them. “If Kastor really isn’t there, then—”
“They’re heading for an ambush.” There was no hesitancy in Laurent’s voice. “They will meet a force of two-and-twenty men, and be slaughtered on sight.”
“No,” Damen recoiled, horror rising in goosebumps up his back, “no, that’s not—”
“Unless,” Laurent, “we meet them ahead of time and convince them to retreat.”
Words flooded his throat like bile. “Kastor would never,” Damen started, and stopped. “You’ve not proved anything to me yet. Why should I believe you?”
Laurent gave him a look from under one raised, pointy eyebrow. “Why would I bother making up this lie?”
“Perhaps you realised you couldn’t prove your claims, and this is your plan to dispose of me. Have me sent out alone on some fictional mission—”
“Idiot,” Laurent rolled his eyes. “I’m not suggesting to send you there on your own. I’m offering to come with you.”
Spluttering didn’t seem a dignified reaction, as Crown Prince. Damen—snorted, then. Around them, the sky was quick to darken, and some stars appeared far in the distance.
“You? Why would I want you to come with me?” After a moment: “Why would you even want to come?”
The corner of Laurent’s mouth tilted downwards. “I know these woods better than anyone,” he said. “I’m the only one who’ll get you there before your men make it to the keep. Besides, I’m one of the best fighters in this camp. As for why I’d want to come, you have yet to pay my tax. I decided I need you alive for that.”
Damen quirked an eyebrow, tried and failed for a full, coherent thought. There was no proof that Laurent was telling the truth: this could still be some sort of ploy, a step deep within a scheme he couldn’t hope to comprehend. Laurent was planning for some sort of fight against an invisible enemy; Laurent was a thief; Laurent could not be trusted, which was everything he knew about him.
But if Laurent was (somehow, disastrously) right, then his men were in danger.
The choice, in the end, was simple. “I’ll need my sword,” Damen said. If this proves to be something nefarious, he’ll fight his way free, and make it for Ravenel himself. If not, and the chances were incredibly, impossibly slim—then… he’d fight, anyway.
“Of course. A sword and a horse, once we’re outside the camp area. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave it blindfolded, same as you had entered.”
“You’re joking,” with a groan, although Laurent looked nothing but serious.
“I assure you I’m not. If you’re caught and interrogated, I’d rather you have no knowledge of the whereabouts of my camp. Besides, you’ve far from earned my trust.”
“I,” Damen exclaimed, utterly undone with the boldness of it, “I am the one who’s not earned your trust?”
A grim set of pink lips. “Precisely.”
Oh, the nerve of that man. If man is indeed what he was, this glowing, ethereal beauty Damen wanted to smother. Through his teeth: “Fine. Let us go, then, if you think there’s real danger. I will not lose a single man because you like to dawdle.”
“Dawdle,” Laurent said. “I like to dawdle.” Shook his head, sighed. “Let me gather the men and the supplies we’ll need. I’ll meet you outside your tent in half an hour. Oh, and, Damianos-Exalted,” turning back towards the encampment, “make sure not to dawdle.”
Not grumbling to himself but certainly not happy about it, Damen followed the lit path back to the tents, then spent a great amount of time searching for his particular one. Desperate for a wash, for some water, for a moment to himself, to think clearly. Got none.
Around him, too many people. Farmers and fighters all gathered together, and for what purpose? What could they possibly all be doing here, following the lead of one mad, criminal youth? What was the plan, what web of lies and deceit had he fallen into? And who will be the one to pay for his indecision, for his hesitancy?
Kastor, possibly at the keep, waiting for him? Besieged by battalions of raging Veretians, loyal to no one, or perhaps to the usurper?
His men, on their way towards certain doom?
His country, when he ends this farce without his honour, or worse, his life?
None of them were good options. Damen, who had the resolve of a Crown Prince and a soldier, who had the might of ten men (or so the legend said) and the will of twenty (according to the poems)—in any case, Damen had decided: none of these options would come to be. He simply would not allow it.
Would not allow a gorgeous thief to steal his logic, would not allow this strange situation to dull his instincts. He was a smart man after all, and a strong one, and soon, he’ll be reunited with his men. Then, he could do whatever he needed to secure the mission. To bring back peace and prosperity. To perform his duty, and go home.
By chance, or by some sort of guidance, he made it to his tent, recognisable only for Laurent standing before it. He was in riding leathers, and with him Jord, Orlant, Lazar, and another man Damen couldn’t name.
Five of them? He could take five, if need be.
“We leave at once,” Laurent, sharp. “Our horses will wait for us in the edge of camp. We ride through the night, and the next day.”
“To Ravenel?” Damen asked, and allowed his wrists to be tied behind his back in what became an annoyingly familiar motion. “I thought it was at least a week’s ride from here.”
“And is currently the site for an ambush, as I’ve mentioned,” with a sigh. Someone came to wrap the blindfold around his eyes: Lazar’s hands were a lot rougher than Laurent’s. Damen had to stop himself from flinching. “We’ve no reason to go to the actual keep. We will meet your men at an intersection of the road which they’re bound to take, according to my calculations, in three days.”
“What do you hope to do once we rendezvous?”
The hustle of movement, and off they went. Laurent’s voice came from behind him. “I suppose I’ll just have to convince them to come with us.”
“Convince them?” Damen scoffed. “A group of well-trained soldiers? You think you can convince them to lay off their weapons and come with you to the middle of the forest, blindfolded?”
The sounds of the camp grew quieter, distant. “Perhaps not. But I’m certain you can.”
“Me?” Damen stopped, and the person guiding him had to stop too. “You think I will convince them, rather than have them arrest you and bring you to justice?”
“I think you might, if you’re still hoping to get my proof,” Laurent said breezily. “And who’s to say, perhaps you’ll have a change of heart by then.”
“Doubtful,” Damen, with a snarl half-hidden by the cloth.
He could hear Laurent’s shrug. “It’s going to be a long night, Exalted. And an even longer day after it. Lest you forget, these are enchanted woods you are in.”
“Yes, yes,” grumbling to himself as they stopped, he could hear, next to the horses. “Enchanted all right.” See: him, at this moment, agreeing to be treated like a hostage in a mission to ‘save’ his own men from an ‘ambush’.
“I’m going to remove the blindfold. Please remain still.” He was maddeningly slow about it, probably on purpose. The world reformed in fuzzy, blurry lines, dark all around him. Then Laurent made his first mistake, doing something very stupid, and very, very good: he handed Damen back his sword.
“I give you this with a warning,” he said, each word crisper than the one before. “If you attempt an attack against any of my men, I will not be pleased. You would not like the result of displeasing me.”
Damen remembered their duel. “Very well,” he said.
He might not even need to lift his sword once. If they really are going to meet his men, they would do all the work for him.
If. If that was truly their purpose. For except for giving Damen his sword, he’s not seen Laurent err this whole time: and what possible benefit could he see in reuniting his half-prisoner with his army? There had to be something else here, something even worse that Damen should be able to see. Would see, if he weren’t so exhausted, and so out of his element.
Did he truly lose his mind? Was he under some sort of curse?
“Here,” came a sound, and something hurtled in the air—Damen caught it one-handed. A lump of dried meat, and following it, an apple. “I promised I will feed you, after all.”
Damen pocketed the measly meal, hopped astride his horse (not the one he came here on, but a smaller one, barely stocky enough to hold him), and took the reins. After a day of manual labour, this felt like absolute heaven.
Around him, all the others were getting on their horses in dead silence. Laurent’s was pure-white, the least inconspicuous mare possible, glowing faintly in the gathering dark. “Follow me,” he said simply, and started at a gallop.
Sighing heavily to himself, Damen did.