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They set up camp near the river, in a high, well-covered area. While the young Kallias built the bonfire that would keep them warm through the night, the newcomer Jord stood and watched the group work.
He had been ambushed by some Sicyon bandits, losing his horse and sword in the process. Then this band of misfits had picked him up like someone finding a copper coin on the road, dragged him into a near-fatal raid where they emerged victorious, and now he was sharing the fire with them, a cup of wine in one hand and a hard piece of bread in the other.
— Sorry, Ren still doesn’t understand how yeast works.
The aforementioned only rolled his eyes before continuing to eat his apple as if nothing had happened.
A very curious group, no doubt.
The leader, a man named Lazar “the Charmer”, seemed to be on an epic quest with an overly ambitious goal: to become a Knight and win the hand of an Akielon noble, Pallas. The Artesian Empire prospered as one, yes, but the difference between akielons and veretians could still be felt. Especially in the last year, after that little incident.
Around the fire, he could easily find Kallias, a notable fighter of southern origin who wanted to save money to start a new life in Patras with the love of his life. Nicaise, a terrible brat with a god-given talent for stealing, had gotten them some fruit from the market to go with the flour rocks pretending to be dinner. There was Kashel, a rather rough Vaskian woman with a decent knowledge of healing herbs and hands far too steady when it came to stitching a wound.
And then there was Ren.
There was something very strange about Ren.
He swore like a sailor, cooked like a five-year-old child… His hair looked like a bird’s nest with a particular smell, a earthy brown-copper shade that really needed washing. Ren usually tied it into various messy buns, but by the end of the day, it always looked as disheveled as a half-plucked bird. Jord had known plenty of mercenaries with questionable hygiene, so he didn’t feel particularly judgmental. But Ren had something very odd.
His eyes were blue, very blue. A shade rarely seen on the dusty Karthas route. That, combined with a very pretty face beneath the layers of dust and dried blood after a particularly vicious fight, only drew more attention. He spoke like a noble, with complicated words and a certain lilting tone he couldn’t hide among the countless insults he hurled daily. He knew how to read and write — unheard of for lowborns — and he helped Lazar compose love letters for his very noble Pallas. Those were the moments when Jord paid the most attention: Ren transformed, crafting poems with ease and correcting Lazar’s phrases into something more beautiful and melodic. He was a very cultured man, which led him to wonder why a noble would be traveling with a bankrupt band of wanderers with no clear purpose.
— What will you do now, Jord? — Kallias shrugged. Since his broken engagement to the fourth son of Guion of Fortaine, Jord had wandered without a clear destination. He could go to the capital to try his luck, but things were somewhat tumultuous there, and it was better to wait until the death of that King was officially announced. If anything could tear the empire apart, it would be the funeral of the last of the veretian royal line.
— You can stay with us. I bet you have a better hand in the cooking process than our emotional-support scarecrow.
— Die, Lazar.
.
.
While browsing the stalls of the flowery market in Marlas, Kashel pursed her lips when she saw Nicaise discreetly stealing henna from one of the booths. The place was very swarming, and the risk of getting caught was higher, especially with so many white-cloaked soldiers roaming around.
In the distance, the new royal palace was still under construction.
I didn’t think the Exalted One would continue with that, she thought with surprise. It had been decreed — after the lavish royal wedding — that Marlas would become the new capital and a new palace would be built there, suited to both veretian and akielon tastes. After bloody wars that gave way to relative peace treaties and sullen glances, the Artes’ Empire had reunited as one with a rather controversial wedding: one was the prized heir of a long line of thoroughbred akielons stretching back centuries of epic history, and the other had been the last legacy of the infamous royal house of Vere. No one quite understood how that wedding had happened, but people were happy. A royal wedding meant weeks of celebration, wine, and festivals everywhere. Jousts, hunts, games. Anything that meant raising taxes was very welcome!
The empire had prospered enormously, almost like a divine message that this was how things should be.
And then, from one month to the next, the King with akielon blood was left alone in his scorching Ios.
It was quite understandable that the Exalted One had gone a little mad. She only hoped that the increasingly numerous soldiers controlling the roads and small towns were being paid with the royal treasury, and not with wheat taxes.
As long as the nobles’ conflicts didn’t reach the humblest…
Kashel decided to buy herself a couple of new dresses, taking advantage of her good fortune at cards earlier. Ren had mentioned a small veretian shop near the square, praising the quality of their fabrics and their precise work when cutting and sewing.
Perhaps the scarecrow had already been shopping there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d worn a dress to mislead or gather information.
— Welcome to my humble shop! How may I serve you?
— I was looking for a cloth dress to replace this… rag.
— Then you’re in the right place.
The merchant, Charls, hurried to show her different dresses, shirts, matching capes and scarves, some with clear vaskian inspiration that warmed her heart. She missed home sometimes. She could almost hear old Halvik commenting on how foolish she was for leaving the safety of the mountains for a colorful skirt.
Ah, we all do foolish things for love. Just look at the Exalted One…
— Any new news about the new palace construction? I thought it would be suspended after what happened in Kingsmeet.
Charls shrugged while taking her bust measurements without blinking.
— No official announcement yet, but construction has paused to redirect the money to the other cause.
— And nothing is known about that? At least it’s said the traitor was executed in the main square of Ios, amid the crowd’s shouts.
— It seems the Exalted One didn’t wish to execute him. Of course, it was a difficult decision… executing your own brother for treason… but the council voted, and the people demanded an answer for his crimes. It was a more respectable end than disappearing silently in a dungeon, I think.
— Kastor had nothing honorable about him. I still believe he was the one who made the veretian King disappear…
— The Exalted One is certain he still lives, which is why he hasn’t ceased his search.
It was impressive how quickly Charls worked while gossiping about royal affairs. Kashel was impressed. Soon she had two dresses with matching capes.
She said goodbye politely and headed back to the camp on the border of Marlas. Lazar must be trying to write another sickly-sweet letter to his beloved Pallas.
Perhaps Ren would be interested to hear what Charls had to say about the crown’s entanglements.
.
.
His rudimentary net worked, and Kallias almost let out a cry of joy when he saw they would have fresh fish for dinner that night... as long as Ren stayed ten meters from the fire and let Jord cook for them.
He might even sell some fish early in the nameless hamlet where they were stopping, right in the province of Mellos. If he got a few copper coins for it…
Soon, Erasmus and he could live quietly in Bazal, without old Adastrus hurting his beloved again. He imagined a small house in a plowed field. They could have honest, paid work, a few chickens, and a lamb. Erasmus would be free. Kallias only wanted him to have peace.
Perhaps he should try casting the net again, upstream, and catch more fish. He needed those coins.
He left the catch in a safe place and began walking along the bank, looking for deeper water to try his luck.
Ren was washing his hair in a small backwater. He seemed engrossed in the task, lips pursed in irritation. The dye — henna, if he guessed right — still clung to his rebellious strands, but the roots of his hair weren’t brown.
Kallias stayed still, not daring to reveal his presence so close.
The henna explained a lot, really. But it changed nothing. Ren was a skilled fighter, quite good at hunting and terrible at cooking. He had shown Kallias how to tie the knots in his net, how to properly skewer a combative boar. He tended to the horses with the stubbornness of a stable boy, kept everyone’s blades well-sharpened for future fights, and shared his excellent knowledge of geography when locating small villages and negotiating lodgings on rainy days.
So if he chose to keep his hair hidden under henna, Kallias wouldn’t be the one to betray him. Not even for the juicy reward many offered for heads like that.
As slowly as he could, he withdrew the way he came.
.
.
Nicaise was excited, though he pretended otherwise. They were near the province of Kesus, and there were rumors of real lions there.
What if they tried to hunt one?
Ren had given him a tap on the back of the head at the mere suggestion. Killjoy. Boring idiot.
He had wandered the surroundings of Ravenel, looking for nobles who wouldn’t miss a little gold too much. He had to eat, after all, and the madam of the brothel always softened her gaze when Nicaise offered her a share of his earnings in exchange for a corner near the fire and some soup.
Then Lazar the Idiot and Ren the Dirty had found him. Well, Nicaise had found them first. Ren had seemed noble enough (before he heard him insult Lazar’s mother in five different ways) to try picking his pockets.
He only found two copper coins, a piece of charcoal, and a pair of blue eyes shining with amusement.
— A little rat trying to rob me?
He was kidnapped and put to work for the two idiots.
Lazar usually asked him to steal ink and paper, something simpler than it seemed. The would-be knight was in full courtship of an akielon nobleman, so tradition was appropriate. Ren corrected his handwriting, his overly veretian (read: sexual) phrases, his absurd poems, and impossible promises. Then Nicaise was in charge of going to the nearest village and sending the letter.
It was hard work, but they were paying him for it, so…
Stealing for Ren was more complicated.
Sometimes he demanded henna. Other times, demanded a particular book from some public library. Sometimes even a dress or shirt in a veretian style, with ribbons and knots everywhere.
Payment for his services varied. Silver coins (Nicaise hoarded them jealously in his shirt pockets), lessons on the alphabet and classic literature… sometimes even strange-flavored candies that Ren hid up his sleeves like a drunken, nonsensical wizard.
He couldn’t complain. Being in this group was more fun than circling Ravenel’s high walls looking for scraps to eat.
— In the name of the Artesian Crown, halt.
Oh no.
Soldiers!
Six men with burnished helmets, the lion representing the Exalted One’s heraldry shining on the clasps of their white cloaks, surrounded them unhurriedly. The one who seemed to be the captain, a burly man with a scar on his cheek, raised his hand.
— Just a routine inspection. Remove your hoods and hats.
Lazar muttered something about “always ruining the day,” but everyone obediently dismounted and removed anything covering their heads from the morning sun. Ren was the last, looking almost annoyed by such a request. Nicaise wondered if he would say something with that condescending tone he used while skinning other people’s pride. Soldiers always turned faster toward veretian accents, ignoring those that sounded akielon. Everyone knew what — or rather, who — they were looking for, but it was foolish to stop their journey for that. They would never find the missing monarch there.
Their saddlebags and trunks were searched with some disdain. One of the crown’s dogs — a young man with eyes brimming with boredom — came dangerously close to Ren. He grabbed his chin with rough fingers and lifted his face without warning, like a jeweler examining a diamond in the light.
— You have pretty eyes, you know? Blue. Almost like le Roi Disparu… — his smile was disgusting, showing teeth like a lion. Nicaise lost all desire to see one. — They say Laurent of Vere had eyes like yours. Cold. Pretty. The Exalted One misses them so much that he offers a fortune for any lead.
Lazar the Idiot, who had positioned himself a short distance away, gripped his sword hilt. Jord followed his example, clutching his patched spear tightly. Kallias and Kashel stayed in place, but their eyes were more calculating, as if plotting an escape route in case the group had to flee from six insolent soldiers.
Nicaise wondered how quickly he could mount his horse and distract them.
A mocking smile was Ren’s response. He didn’t bother freeing himself from the soldier’s grip.
— The Exalted One’s Consort? — the accent he tried to fake sounded a bit strange, but Nicaise gave him points for trying to sound like a common peasant — I don’t know what you’re talking about, sire. I’m not blond. Look, brown hair. Mom always said I looked like a field mouse…
He ran a hand through his dirty, clearly brown hair as if proud of it. Nicaise suspected he mixed the henna with something else to make it darker, but he had no proof. He also had no proof that Ren used henna to dye his hair, of course, but that was another matter.
The White-Cape idiot let out a short laugh but didn’t release his grip, to everyone’s concern.
— A field mouse with royal eyes… what a strange combination… — he finally let Ren go, giving him a pat on the shoulder that was more threat than camaraderie — … Lucky you’re not blond, pretty mouse. If you were, we’d take you to Ios so the Exalted One could look at you up close. Maybe those eyes of yours would bring back memories… or comfort.
Ren lowered his gaze in feigned submission. Nicaise didn’t miss the way he clenched his fists behind his back.
— Continue on your way.
The group remounted and continued at a slow pace along the dusty Kesus road.
He searched his pocket before remembering he had eaten all the stolen bonbons from an elegant lady in one of Tracia’s fancy shops. He had nothing sweet to share with Ren.
Once the soldiers were out of sight, Lazar began to laugh.
— Damn, Ren. They almost accused you of being the lost veretian King because of your exotic eyes. What’s next? Putting a pyrite crown on your crow’s nest of hair and showing up naked in front of the Exalted One so he recognizes you by the star-shaped mole on your ass?
Kashel started laughing too, finding the mental image hilarious. Kallias stayed silent, thoughtful. Jord only spurred his horse to keep pace with Nicaise.
— I swear if King Damianos puts up wanted posters saying “Wanted Alive or Dead: pretty blue eyes”, we’re done. They’ll steal Ren in a heartbeat and won’t even reward us.
— Calm down — Ren’s voice sounded amused, not at all offended by his companions’ words. He leaned in a little, almost as if sharing a confidence — Surely the veretian king is dead somewhere out there. Poor Damianos. He must be suffering so much…
— Suffering? More like enjoying himself! Have you seen Lady Jokaste? They say she was the king’s lover even before he married King Laurent. I think he’s found plenty of comfort in her red skirts.
Ren joined the laughter, though with a different sharpness. His eyes narrowed with barely concealed annoyance. Nicaise wondered how many candies it would take to calm him down.
— Everyone knows the Exalted One is looking for his consort because he can’t afford a civil war. The northern provinces would rebel against him without the backing of the last veretian royal blood. Particularly with rumors of his murder at the hands of Kastor the Traitor… yes, the staunchest veretians would rise in arms.
Nicaise didn’t understand politics. Hunger was the same, summer or winter, war or supposed peace. Nobles still served lavish banquets and threw scraps to the dogs and other children like Nicaise. Nothing changed.
He had heard of King Laurent’s attempts to send aid to the provinces hardest hit by the old war, only stopped by the akielon bastard who dominated part of the Royal Council.
Would it have changed anything? Nicaise doubted it.
The one who had handed him a plate of warm food had been Ren, not some arrogant monarch.
His loyalties were there, and they wouldn’t change.
.
.
The blood spilled quickly, staining the soldier’s white cloak with its cruel red.
It was a very stupid mistake, but when he found himself subdued by soldiers, he couldn’t help thinking that now it was all over. He wondered if anyone from that tavern would notify his traveling companions about what had happened.
Lazar had only defended a woman (a girl) from that idiot, and everything spiraled out of control.
Oh, Pallas will never forgive me. He is loyal to the Exalted One, and he will see me as the guilty one. So much for your attempt to be worthy of his hand, fool.
He thought he would be executed right there, on the bounds of the small village where they had been resting on their way to the port. Fighting a king’s soldier had terrible consequences. Killing one…
Instead, he was tied up and put on a horse.
—Where are you taking me?
—To the capital. You will be judged for your crime against a man faithful to the Crown.
Then they gagged him and continued the journey.
Yes, it was all over. His great deeds and even greater love poems would be forgotten. Pallas would forget him, marry some idiot who didn’t deserve him, and not shed a single tear for Lazar.
Perhaps he had been too optimistic to think that a simple mercenary like him could escape his nature and become something he wasn’t.
They arrived quite quickly at the Old Capital. He had to be grateful that Marlas was still in the process of becoming the new seat of government, because traveling there would have been exhausting.
Lazar was thrown into a dungeon to await his trial.
What would his little band of loyal squires be doing? Would they miss him? Would they stay together even though their glorious leader was behind bars?
Well, Kallias already had enough money to reunite with his precious Erasmus and head north. At least one of them would have a happy ending with the love of his life. Nicaise was too young to fall in love, barely fifteen years old. A mere child. Jord and Kashel shared a broken heart, though under different circumstances, but united in the same spirit of resignation. Jord might try to continue wandering the hot southern lands, but maybe Kashel would return to Vask, where her tribe would welcome her with open arms.
Ren was a mystery.
He was a hopeless romantic, something blatantly clear when listening to him recite classic poems as if he were in love to the bone. He understood courtship and gallantry, helping Lazar with gifts for Pallas and correcting his letters before allowing them to be sent.
But he was also a pessimist. He had once muttered that fairy tales were a deception and happy endings were scams for children. He had shown more than once his resentment toward certain romance books, saying they only idealized something that always ended badly anyway. Lazar thought it was a bit pathetic: he was clearly a disillusioned young man who had first encountered how sad life could be. It confirmed his noble origin, always protected from the misfortunes of the common folk and with enough time to lose himself in foolish daydreams instead of suffering under the sun.
Someone had broken his heart, and Ren clung to it to stay on horseback, riding alongside Lazar and ranting about how idiotic half the courtiers of the King were.
He hadn’t seen him blink in surprise when, shortly after they met and took a break from the road, a group of soldiers had stopped them to share the latest news: the Exalted One’s husband had disappeared overnight.
No one knew where he was or what had happened to him.
King Damianos had ordered the capital closed and placed soldiers on every corner to find him.
Lazar and Ren had only shrugged and continued on their way. There was an interesting reward for a certain Govart, and his last clear location had been Nesson-Eloy. That was weeks of travel. They didn’t have time to waste.
Neither mentioned Ren’s hair, hidden under an old wool cap. As soon as they got henna, Lazar helped Ren dye it to fool the soldiers.
It was none of his business, and as long as Ren knew how to handle a sword and bandage his own wounds, it was fine.
Ren had shown surprise when, in a Delpha tavern, they were told in lavish detail about a scandalous betrayal involving the king’s brother and several nobles who had pretended to be loyal.
“I didn’t think he would act so quickly” was the only thing he said that night before retiring early to sleep. He never drank wine, except on that one occasion when he was challenged to a contest of “how many cups of griva can you handle before vomiting and dying.” Ren had won and survived the griva like a champion.
Lazar was proud to have recruited him on his epic mission to collect deeds and earn a name of respect.
Soon, they recruited Nicaise near Ravenel. Kallias was picked up at the port of Marches, where they bribed him with some coins and the promise of being his own boss in exchange for his help on a dangerous mission. Then he had stayed with them, though he seemed to think they were a suicidal group or something. Kashel was recruited near Acquitart when they defended the fort from a group of tall male vaskians.
They had lived great adventures and forged their names in the heat of battle. Or something like that. But people recognized them and paid for their services, so they were on the right track.
Even when they rescued kittens from rooftops or watched children while their mothers washed clothes in the stream, Lazar already dreamed of his happy future with Pallas.
Ren patted his back and wished him a good future.
None of that would happen in the end...
A pair of guards dragged him into a small, dark room where someone was waiting.
He didn’t need to guess who.
Broad shoulders, overwhelming presence. His eyes held only disgust for Lazar.
So this was the famous Exalted One, Damianos of Akielos.
He didn’t need to be forced to kneel. He knew his place in the food chain.
Damianos observed Lazar for a long while before speaking. His voice was calm, almost conversational. Almost deceptively quiet.
— You have traveled far across these lands, knight Lazar of Chasteigne. A year, they say. Crossing borders, solving problems that don’t concern you. Killing guards who offended a woman’s honor, apparently. Stealing objects that don’t belong to you.
That accusation was new. Lazar raised his eyes, meeting the king’s evaluating gaze. He didn’t answer immediately, preferring to review the king’s words before stepping into more trouble.
— A man like you usually travels alone… or with companions of your ilk, though it’s rare to see. Mercenaries aren’t known for maintaining loyalties. And yet you carried a peculiar company everywhere. A child, a vaskian raider, a former akielon slave, a soldier from the old veretian regime… —he paused, though he still lacked mentioning someone: the strangest of the group.
Lazar had an appropriate answer for that.
— I travel with those who follow me. Some out of necessity. Others by choice. — he kept a neutral tone. One wrong step and he would be executed on the spot. Akielons weren’t known for being very merciful to criminals — I don’t keep track of others’ loyalties.
The king smiled, but there wasn’t warmth in the gesture.
— Interesting. Because some loyalties weigh more than others. And when a man flees from a place where everything was served on a silver platter… — power, security, a name that opens doors and grants the desires of his heart — … it’s usually because he found a distraction elsewhere.
Was he accusing him of what he thought?
The mercenary didn’t blink. He couldn’t falter or show weakness in front of the hungry, angry lion. He briefly wondered what Ren would say if he could tell him about this surreal exchange.
— Fleeing is an art — he said softly, after a long pause — It requires more than a fast horse. Hares don’t flee from the whispers of the wind. They flee when they sense danger nearby. Why reproach his behavior? Perhaps it’s the fault of the meadow for not being safe enough. Perhaps it’s the fault of the burrow for not being warm and welcoming.
The Exalted One watched him for a few moments, revealing little. Had he said too much? Well, anyway, he was a man condemned to die. At least Ren would find the whole conversation amusing, if he ever found out.
May Pallas never forget Lazar the Brave.
— The trial will be by combat. Public. Fair. — There was a calculating look in the king’s eyes. For all Ren’s derogatory comments about the Exalted One’s intelligence, Lazar was finding him a very intelligent man — And your adventure companions… surely they will want to see you. Loyalty has a high price in these lands. Let’s give them time to reach Ios to witness the trial, shall we?
No response was needed. A pair of guards grabbed his arms again and took him out of the room, back to the damp cell.
The palace square was packed. Citizens surrounding the arena, delimited for combat, ornate veretian-style palcos full of nobles eating and drinking as if at a festival. It was nauseating.
The Exalted One watched everything from a privileged vantage point above, accompanied on his right by Nikandros of Delpha, on his left by Vannes the Maiden Squire, loyal counselor to the dead/missing/fugitive veretian king.
Trial by combat. What nonsense.
Lazar was destined to lose.
He only hoped none of his companions would come. He hoped they stayed far from the capital. Especially Ren. He wished he could warn him to run in the opposite direction.
The combat began.
Pallas was in a nearby box, eyes teary and expression firm.
Lazar greeted him one last time, paying his respects to Pallas and only to Pallas.
It was a good day to die.
.
.
Ren realized something was wrong when it was already too late.
The small doors were closed. Only the main gates had been opened and were full of soldiers. Palace soldiers themselves, watching every face that passed with hawk eyes. Soldiers who might recognize the Crown’s face from having seen it before kneel in deference.
It was a trap. And there was no way he could turn back and leave without someone stopping him and examining his face. At least they hadn’t brought any of the portraits commissioned by the Exalted One to hold up and compare similarities.
What a shame.
But Ren had come here for a reason.
The innkeeper had been clear: a white-cloaked soldier had tried to grope one of the young employees, and Lazar had defended her. A cut had gone to the soldier’s jugular, and it all ended. The mercenary was arrested and taken to Ios to be judged.
It should have seemed strange to him that it was a trial by combat. Those were left for useless matters, stupid disputes among nobles. Not for something like this. Damianos had gone brainless if he believed Lazar’s cause wasn’t justice. Having an abuser among the white cloaks said too much about the crown’s decay.
Maybe this was Jokaste’s influence. Maybe this was the whim of another pale beauty, found during the search for the lost king, like finding a mermaid in the sea foam. Damianos was famous for his particular tastes, after all. Marriage hadn’t changed that.
Life wasn’t a fairy tale where the charming prince saved the princess from the witch’s claw,s and they lived happily ever after.
It didn’t matter. Ren was far from all that.
Until now.
Hidden under a hood and a couple of burly men enjoying the combat, he felt apprehensive for the first time in his life.
Lazar was going to be unjustly condemned in front of the love of his life. By Damianos’s hand.
Was there no way to interrupt this entire farce?
The sword fell, and the mercenary surrendered.
Lazar was going to die.
Damianos rose from his throne and advanced to the balcony railing, serious as ever. He had his laurel crown well placed over the dark curls that more than once had been combed by his husband, and his lion brooch reflected some sun rays. He was a king in every sense of the word, and as always, Ren lost his breath a little at the sight of him, though he still carried the bitterness of the past.
The cheerful murmur of the square died as if someone had cut the sound. Damianos always had that effect on people. Ren had always envied him for that.
— People of united Vere and Akielos, beloved people of Artes; — his voice rang clear and sharp without effort — today justice has been fought for. A man accused of spilling the blood of a crown servant has been judged by steel as ancient Law dictates. The combat has spoken.
Lazar was on his knees, still. No one held him, but it wasn’t necessary. The King had spoken.
Beside Ren, Jord shifted uneasily. He had no idea where Kashel and Nicaise had gone. Kallias wore an expression of fierce indignation.
— Are we going to do something? We can’t…
Ren gestured for him to be quiet.
— However… — Damianos continued, a little softer, almost conciliatory — mercy is a gift that must be considered. I am not a King who delights in blood. This man fought with honor. He committed a crime for a purpose he believed fair. And although the law demands his death… I offer an alternative.
The crowd stirred as if something had breathed life into them. Jord grew even more agitated, and Kallias bumped into his side, trying to devise a wild plan to get Lazar out of the arena. The people’s whispers spread like a plague, some in favor, others against.
Damianos extended an open hand toward the arena.
— I offer an exchange: someone who will take this mercenary’s place before the eyes of the Crown — his dark eyes slowly swept the packed square, indecipherable to anyone who didn’t know him privately — Someone willing to surrender in exchange for this knight living.
There wasn’t a promise of survival, which dampened everyone’s spirits.
No one moved. Why would they? Lazar was an eccentric veretian-descended mercenary. Who would give his life for him?
Pallas was about to speak when some relatives restrained him and almost forcibly removed him from the box. Lazar didn’t raise his eyes.
It was a terrible scene, and it made his heart ache.
It was a very well-designed trap. He had fallen into it completely.
Damianos waited.
— No one offers themselves? Then let the sentence be carried out…
Ren advanced. He crossed the barricade and strode firmly across the arena.
He had lived long enough among wolves; his own uncle had taught him the hard way not to show weakness. He kept his face serious, pretended he wore better clothes than the ones he had, and that his henna-and-charcoal-dusted hair wasn’t the mess it was.
He stopped in front of Lazar, shielding him from the palco’s view. He stopped in front of the palco, in front of Damianos of Akielos.
— I will take his place. Blessed be the judgment of the Exalted One and the hands that guide the kingdom. We thank your mercy and pray to the Twelve that you live eternally.
He never lowered his gaze, despite his words. He wouldn’t bow or kneel like a damned courtier.
Ren the Scarecrow should have done so, of course. But not Laurent of Vere. He held the same rank, after all. The akielons liked to call him a mere consort, ignoring the fact that Artes was both Akielon and Veretian territory. Laurent had rights over his half, over the treasure accumulated in the vaults of Arles. His family history might be full of horrible people (like his uncle), but he was still a prince, a king by right. Perhaps Damianos needed remind that.
Nicaise appeared in his peripheral vision, trying to approach. Jord held him back, not letting him advance. Kashel had also appeared, her eyes wide and recognizing what everyone had pretended not to know while traveling together.
The Exalted Damianos didn’t move, remaining still in his place. His gaze was an intense mixture of things. He wondered foolishly what he would think of his hair. He had always preferred blond curls over dark hair. Laurent’s hair must have seemed a crime to him.
A slow, certainly dangerous smile appeared before anyone could clarify anything.
— It’s been a while… sweetheart. I hope the road was peaceful: it cost a lot to bring you back home.
Laurent didn’t look away, though his fists clenched in rage at hearing the stupid pet name come from his stupid lips. He tried to feign a bored tone when answering.
— I didn’t come for you, Damen.
There was a small, bitter laugh in response.
— No. You came for him — Damen pointed toward Lazar with disdain. A pair of veretian guards saluted Laurent with the proper deference before lifting Lazar to his feet and removing him from the arena. The trial was over. Lazar had lost but would keep his life. He might even continue his courtship of Pallas, given the ferocity with which the latter had almost thrown himself from the palco to protect him.
But nothing else mattered in those moments. His husband, his Damen, the damn idiot who had been cheating with Lady Jokaste, who had refused to listen when he warned that Kastor was a problem…
There he was, looking at him as if he had missed him to death. As if he were furious that Laurent had decided to leave where he clearly wasn’t respected, instead of staying and continuing to be a pretty brooch on his crimson cloak.
— Welcome back, husband of mine.
Laurent didn’t reply.
He withdrew from the arena, letting the packed square erupt in shouts and confusion. He gave Jord one of the signals they had practiced on the road.
Get them out of here safely.
Damen didn’t take his eyes off him for a second. It was unnecessary. Laurent wasn’t going to flee again.
He allowed himself to be surrounded by his old guard and began to climb the steps toward the white palace of Ios.