Chapter Text
"Father, I can beat him."
Damen held his father's gaze, refused to let his manner show anything but steadfast confidence and strength. He should have been on the battlefield before now and they both knew it; it was only Theomedes's protectiveness of his heir that had held him back. They couldn't afford such coddling now.
"Father," he said again when Theomedes did not speak. "Even with their king slain, the Veretians will not surrender so long as they have Prince Auguste—nor should they! You heard the same report I did. He is carving through our men like a farmer at the harvest. But I can beat him. You know I can."
Theomedes took a breath—and nodded, firm and brisk as if he had needed no persuasion. The king never backed down from a decision once he had made it. In a proud, ringing voice he called, "Dress the prince for battle!"
The royal armorer and his attendant slaves swept Damen into his tent and readied him to fight, strapping him into breastplate and greaves, shield and helmet—
"This won't do," the armorer said suddenly, pulling the helmet away before it was fully in place. "Exalted, were you aware of this damage?" He turned the helmet, showing Damen a deep scratch in the side.
Damen frowned, only vaguely recalling a blow to the head in a recent sparring bout. "No. Is it deep enough to be a weakness?"
"I must test it, Exalted."
Damen let out an impatient breath. "Do so quickly. Every minute we delay, more good men fall to the Prince of Vere's sword."
The armorer scurried out, and Damen sent the slaves out as well, their work accomplished. He could take a moment alone to focus his mind and prepare for battle.
The moment the tent flap closed behind the last slave, leaving Damen unattended, a slender figure left the tent's shadows and leaped at him with a knife in its hand.
Damen's body reacted before his mind could, knocking the blade aside and striking the figure—a young boy—across the face, then kicking his legs out from under him.
The boy immediately tried again, even disarmed, a rough scream leaving his throat as he threw himself at Damen with only his bare hands. Damen deflected the second attack even more easily than the first. He slammed the boy into the dirt and pinned him there with a knee, arms wrenched up behind his back.
"What are you trying to do, child?" Damen exclaimed. "Who are you?"
Several people had entered the tent behind them, drawn by the noise. Damen waved them back, and the boy took advantage of that distraction to nearly wriggle free. Damen had to slam him down into the dirt twice before he stopped struggling.
"Are you done?" he asked, exasperated.
"Are you going to kill me?" The boy's voice shook but he kept its tone flat, trying not to betray fear. He was speaking Veretian. Of course he was, Damen thought, noticing his bright blond hair and fair, tear-streaked face. Of course he was Veretian; that was all the reason he needed to try to knife Damen.
"No, I don't think it's remotely necessary to kill you," Damen said in Veretian. "I am, however, taking you prisoner."
He pulled the boy to his feet and gave him a brisk patting-down that turned up no further weapons. An onlooker held out a length of rope; Damen used it to tie the boy's hands and feet together behind his back.
"I have no further time to waste on you," he said, then switched back to Akielon to address one of the slaves. "Take this boy to my father. Do not let him escape. But there is no need to treat him harshly," he added, when he saw the hardness of the slave's expression—of most of the expressions around him. No one took well to the fact that this little Veretian had tried to assassinate their prince. "He is no threat now." He never was, for all his efforts.
The boy did not struggle as he was hauled to his feet and toward the flap of the tent—until he saw that Damen was taking his helmet back from the armorer. Then he went from resigned to frantic in an eyeblink.
"No! No, damn you, you can't ride out there! Please! I will not let you fight Prince Auguste!"
Damen held up a hand to stop the slaves dragging him away, and considered the boy with a frown. "I find it hard to believe you're concerned for my safety," he said as the boy continued instinctively pulling at his bonds, chest heaving. "No," Damen realized, "you're trying to protect him from me. What's the matter, are you not confident in your prince's fighting prowess? Am I that much a legend in Vere?"
"This is what you are in Vere," the boy said, and spat onto Damen's boot.
Damen couldn't help smiling. The child certainly had spirit. Not that child was quite the right word—he had to be twelve at least.
How old was the younger Veretian prince? Wasn't it thirteen?
"You have the coloring of the royal family," he said, and the boy's eyes widened, body going still. He glanced around frantically, as if looking for a lie to hide behind, and Damen knew.
"Prince Laurent," Damen said, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. Laurent tried to shake it off, but Damen held firm. "You came here to save your brother's life. I am pleased to say you've succeeded."
"What?"
"There is no need, now, for me to fight him. He will surrender as soon as he finds out we have his brother."
***
The first exchange of messengers brought the battle to a grinding stop. Damen watched as commanders hurriedly pulled back their men, both sides glad of the reprieve. What remained in the middle of the field was a nightmare mess of bodies, dead horses, and blood-churned earth. Damen made sure physicians were sent out under white flags to collect the wounded; Vere quickly did the same.
Prince Laurent had been put under Damen's supervision while everything was arranged. He stood beside Damen on the hillside outside the tent, his spine straight, cheeks sporting a high red blush of mortification. He'll be stunning when he's older, Damen couldn't help thinking. For now, he strove for the composure and dignity of a grown man—though his shoulders, pulled tight by his restraints, betrayed him with occasional trembling, and the wet streaks on his face still had not dried. Damen suspected that the boy was still shedding tears at odd moments, when no one was looking.
"You're safe, Your Highness, there's no need to be afraid," Damen said.
"I'm not afraid of you, imbecile," Laurent said.
"Then why do you weep?" In the next moment, Damen realized what a fool he was. "Your father," he said.
"Yes, my father," Laurent snapped, more dangerously than Damen had thought so young a boy could sound. "Though I will not believe he's dead until I hear it from my own people. Akielons lie."
"Akielons lie?" Damen forced himself to bite his tongue. Less than an hour after King Aleron's death was no time to declare all the man's sins to his young son. "Well, your people will tell you the same—your father was killed on the battlefield. My father will attribute it to the might of our warriors, but my own sources call it a stray arrow. I am sorry you had to learn of it like this." What a way to receive the news—overheard without warning, crowed over as a triumph by his enemies… Of course the boy was weeping. Of course he had stooped to foolishness and dishonorable attack in the wake of it.
"What reason in the world had you to creep into our camp?" he asked the boy. "Was the attempt on my life your aim all along, or did you only seize the opportunity?"
Laurent eyed him sideways but seemed to find no harm in answering. "My initial aim was only to gather information, perhaps engage in a spot of sabotage, if convenient. I am too small and useless for the battlefield," he said bitterly, "as my uncle made very clear to me when he found me putting on armor. But there are other ways to serve my country. Who better for a spy than the small and useless?"
Damen shook his head. "Spies are a necessity, I suppose, but I see no need for a prince to engage in such slinking about."
"If you are so upright and honest, tell me what trickery you plan for my brother, when he comes to negotiate my release."
"No trickery. My word on it," Damen said without hesitation. "Unlike your people, Akielos takes its honor seriously. We will harm none who come to us for parley."
"You expect me to trust your word," Prince Laurent said icily.
"Yes, I do!"
"Would you trust mine?"
"Give it and find out. Give me your parole," Damen said abruptly. "Your word as a prince of Vere to conduct yourself honorably as my prisoner. Give me your parole and I will untie you."
"Will you give me back my knife?"
Damen laughed. "I said I was honorable, not an idiot."
Laurent snorted hard, but after testing his ropes for a sulky moment, he said, "Very well. I give you my parole, Prince Damianos. I will seek neither violence nor escape. And what does that get me?"
"It gets you my promise to defend you and care for your needs, as I would any other under my care. And it gets you out of your ropes." A few sharp tugs had him untied, and Laurent rubbed at his wrists and shoulders.
"Of course, now if your brother fails to ransom you, you become my slave," Damen said.
Prince Laurent bared his teeth. "I'll be sure to honorably revoke my parole before I slit your throat."
Damen laughed. Spirit, he thought again. Little honor and less sense, but plenty of spirit.
There was quite a flurry of messages, including one written by Laurent's own hand confirming his identity and safety, before both sides agreed on where and when to meet for negotiations. Finally a flat place just east of the battlefield, open and visible from all directions and out of range of either side's archers, was decided upon. Damen and his father brought only a pair of guards each, in addition to Laurent himself, and permitted the same for Prince Auguste and whatever advisor he chose to bring—which turned out to be Prince Laurent the Elder, the late king's younger brother.
Laurent the Younger broke away from Damen several yards before it was proper to do so, rushing to throw himself into his brother's arms. Damen had to wave back a nearby soldier to keep him from pursuing the boy. Beside him, Damen's father made a sound of disapproval.
"I'm sorry, Auguste," Laurent cried in tearful Veretian, "I'm so sorry, I know I've mucked everything up—"
"You're not hurt, that's all that matters," Auguste said, hugging the boy tightly. "Everything else can be dealt with."
"But now you'll have to negotiate for me, you'll have to give up land, or—"
"Hush, let's not hand arrows to our enemies," Laurent's uncle said, his voice brisk but his hand gentle as he patted the boy's shoulder. "I'm sure at least some of them can understand you."
"Yes, Prince Damianos speaks Veretian," Laurent said, pointing at Damen.
"Much better than you speak Akielon, little one," Damen said cheerfully, in Veretian.
"We are not handing the boy over just yet," Theomedes growled, in Akielon. "Damianos, reclaim him."
Sighing at the necessity, Damen stepped forward and drew Laurent gently away from his brother. "You have seen he is safe and well. He must return to our camp now."
"Certainly not," the uncle said, Auguste bristling beside him.
"Certainly so," Theomedes said firmly, in awkward but sufficient Veretian. "Do not fear for him. He will be treated well, as befits his office."
"He has given me his parole," Damen said, which earned him a startled and not-entirely-pleased look from his father. "I am honor-bound to see to his care. He will be with my own trusted people at all times." He gestured one of his guards forward. "Take the prince to Lykaios. She will see to anything he needs."
For a moment it looked as if more serious measures might be necessary to separate the two brothers, but at length young Laurent, perhaps remembering his parole, squared his shoulders and let himself be led away.
The moment Laurent was out of earshot, Theomedes set his feet and opened negotiations with a single sentence in Akielon.
"If you wish to see your prince again, we will be taking Delpha in his stead."
Uproar followed, of course. Soon all four of them were talking over each other, Auguste and Theomedes shouting in each other's faces as Damen and Prince Laurent the Elder tried to call for reason and calm.
"I know the value of what we have," Theomedes snapped, finally cutting over the hubbub. "Or will you tell me your brother is not worth a few miles of land?"
"A moment," the uncle said, and pulled Auguste away, putting their guards between them and the Akielon delegation. Damen's father turned to him with hot complaints on his lips, but Damen shushed him, listening intently to Auguste and his uncle's low, hurried conversation in Veretian.
"—must not bow to a conqueror's demands," the uncle was saying. "You know Akielos will not be appeased. You will only be gifting them more strength to use against us later."
"What choice have we? You know I will not abandon Laurent!"
"Then you will abandon the loyal subjects of Delfeur, who have fought and sacrificed—"
"I know, but it is not as though Delfeur will be wiped from the map. They will live, as subjects of Akielos."
"You have been king less than an hour, you cannot afford to look as weak as this, you cannot afford for your first act as king to be a capitulation to Akielos!"
"I understand that, Uncle," Auguste said, his expression frantic, "but again I ask you, what choice do we have?"
"Father," Damen murmured, "we must make this an easier medicine for them to swallow. We risk a fight with a cornered beast, giving them impossible choices—"
"Oh, their choice is very possible, and very clear." Theomedes crossed his arms, radiating satisfaction. "We have them over a barrel, my son. There is no need for further negotiation; they will pay whatever price they must for the young prince. And for that I have you to thank! Capturing the lad was well done." He gripped Damen's shoulder affectionately.
His father was right in every way, of course, and Damen certainly did not regret Prince Laurent's capture; he had saved his own life and doubtless many others by doing so. Nor did he feel any regret in forcing a surrender from Vere. Victory in battle might have been preferable from the standpoint of honor and glory, but the ransom of prisoners of rank was no shameful practice.
Yet Damen, though he enjoyed hunting, always preferred a clean kill to watching his prey writhe and suffer in its defeat.
"Our brother of Vere," he called, which caused looks of surprise on all sides. Yes, it was a customary mode of address between royals, but not royals who were actively at war. "I assure you, we are here to negotiate, not simply dictate terms. We all want an end to this conflict."
That drew more startled glances still, and fairly enough, because Damen knew he had hardly been a voice for peace up until now. But he found he had his lost his heart for fighting, at least for today. All he could think about was Laurent crying for his dead father. "Enough people have suffered and died today," Damen said. "Let us have an end to war."
His father looked furious. "My son attempts to persuade you with lies," he said, "but I will honor you with the bald truth. Vere will never have an end of war. You are a tiny, weak-willed kingdom with no allies of any strength. Inevitably, you will be picked apart."
"All the faster, if we bow to you!" snapped Prince Laurent the Elder.
"But there is a way we might all win!" Damen spoke the idea even as it formed in his mind—which was ill-advised, perhaps, but he had it, he had the solution. "Vere wants a strong ally. Akielos wants an ancestral land returned. Surely an alliance between us, with Delpha as the token exchanged..."
"And we are to merely trust that, having already received what you want, you will later exert yourself to defend us?" Prince Laurent the Elder's expression was nearly a sneer.
Prince Auguste was more polite, but equally firm. "Mere words will not do. We must have something measurable, tangible, something others will judge you by if you do not keep your promises."
"You dare!" Theomedes shouted. "You, a snake of Vere, dare to question our promises—You are already defeated, boy! The only question is how much face we allow you to save as you surrender."
"A marriage," Damen said. "A marriage between our houses, with Delpha as dowry. Vere saves face in its defeat, Akielos gains our land, we both gain an ally."
"There is no need," Theomedes said, "to saddle either of my sons with a Veretian consort. We already have what we want."
Prince Laurent the Elder was tapping his lip thoughtfully. "But consider, King Theomedes, the gain to your reputation. To win what you want through marriage—that is subtlety, cleverness, diplomacy. Akielos is well-known for its strength, none deny it, but you are also regarded as barbarian brutes. If you will allow me to honor you with bald truth." His smile was thin, sardonic.
To Damen's surprise, this seemed to strike Theomedes. His brows drew down in thought.
"It would be no ill thing," he murmured, almost to himself, "for Akielos to be known for more than her sword-arms. My late wife often said so." He cleared his throat. "What daughter, then, has the royal house of Vere to offer one of my sons?"
"Alas, no daughter," Auguste said, spreading his hands helplessly. "Nor niece nor even cousin. Only myself and my brother. And you have only sons as well, I believe?"
"Yes. Both unmarried, at least..."
"It will not do for Auguste to marry a son," the uncle said, apologetic. "As king he must have a wife to bear him children, heirs to the throne."
"It must be the younger son, then. Fair enough, as we have won him squarely already."
"Laurent is far too young to marry," Auguste said in some alarm.
Theomedes waved this off. "Some three or four years of betrothal are acceptable, so long as the dowry is delivered now."
"I will gladly accept Laurent's hand," Damen said, "when the time is appropriate," and for a moment he felt… light, happy, the same giddy excitement that came with a dive into unknown waters. Laurent seemed certain to grow into an exquisite young man, and his character was very promising, Damen could see them doing well together—
His father scowled at him in bewildered frustration. "You are full of mad pronouncements today, Damen. You cannot have a husband any more than Prince Auguste, and furthermore, Lady Jokaste would be quite surprised to hear you make offers to another!"
Jokaste. Of course. Perhaps he really was running mad, or at least fevered. There was no official understanding yet between Damen and Jokaste, but it would indeed be a shock to her and all the court if they did not wed after all the courtship he had paid her. What was wrong with him?
"It shall have to be my older son, Kastor," Theomedes said. "I assure you, he will make a fine husband for your young prince." He held out his hand to shake on the agreement.
Kastor. Auguste mouthed the word in silent dismay—or perhaps the word was bastard. Damen had almost forgotten how poorly-regarded bastards were in Vere. His blood heated at the thought that these men would dare look down their noses at his strong-hearted brother, for a circumstance of birth that had nothing to do with his character.
But despite the unhappy glance shared between Auguste and his uncle, despite Auguste's face falling briefly into the lines of a much older man's, he reached for the hand Theomedes extended, and shook on the agreement that would save his kingdom and ransom its captive prince.