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Laurent watched his narrow-prowed, elegant ships wallow in the Isthima strait and made a note to hang the royal shipbuilder when they returned to Vere. Alongside Sirène, the Akielon ships, square and sturdy, cut through the chop with ease. The royal shipbuilder had many opinions on Akielon ship design, had called them unwieldy in the deep-water ports of Vere. Now, Laurent swayed with Sirène as wave after wave smashed her side, despite the shelter provided by those supposedly unwieldy vessels that held true through the currents. His hand was numb on the guardrail, and his back rigid from holding himself upright. Perhaps hanging was too good a fate for the shipbuilder.
"Your Majesty," Lazar stepped up to his shoulder. "Signal from Corvus: rough travel ahead. Should probably come below."
"A very Akielon welcome," said Laurent. He turned his gaze from the string of ships behind him. "How is Jord?"
"Still puking his guts out." Lazar grinned viciously, knowing full well the naval officer behind him had blanched white at such vulgarity before the king. Lazar had gained some prettier manners in the time since their campaign, yet retained enough rustic charm for Laurent to wield him as a weapon when needed.
Below, the Chamberlain had, to the best of his abilities, created a Veretian court away from home: fine screens and delicate hangings broke the largest cabin into the niches and folds to which Laurent's court was accustomed. They all gathered there, courtiers and pets, servants and guards, pretending as hard as they could that this was some summer tour on the lakes of Varenne. They were terrified, but none of the invited nobles dared to remain behind in Vere. There was too much potential for intrigue, and Laurent knew it. He planned on it.
Laurent smiled, and the crowd parted to the walls of the cabin. Majesty, they said reverently as he passed. Heads bowed. Robes brushed the wooden floor. He passed through them, nodding here and there as necessary, building favour and showing disdain with calculated effect. Before him, pages scurried with wine and fruit, arranging cushions on the tall wooden seat that served as throne while the court was at sea. In his wake came whispers, analysis, supposition. Laurent loved his court, but he loved them best when they were off-centre and afraid. And here, almost at the port of Ios, they were terribly afraid of what was to come as guests of the Akielon King.
Many aboard this ship wished him dead, had they the chance. Laurent was accustomed to living amongst sharks; he spent enough time cultivating his own shark-like qualities to best survive. This time, though, the intent was clear and focused, or so his spies had whispered. Which of you, he thought to himself, has plied assassins with Veretian gold? I will find you. We travel to an unyielding country. Akielos will lay your plans bare and her King will be the cliff against which you are dashed.
King Damianos. As he walked, Laurent allowed himself the indulgence to think of Damen in his homeland. Somewhere to the east was Ios, vast halls of white marble, and Damen with a circlet of golden laurels on his brow. He felt a pinch, deep in his chest, and it pleased him that nobody could see it. He let out a breath very slowly, until stars danced before his eyes.
The ship dived and bucked beneath his feet, the courtiers cried out in alarm, but Laurent swayed with the movement, footsure and steady. When the thump in his chest had settled, he sat and took the cup prepared for him, without taking his eyes from his court.
---
The port was like any port, a familiar chaos, and the sameness of the disarray, the screaming gulls and shouting men, was a relief. Sirène rocked gently as they disembarked, and her figurehead, a woman with her head thrown back in song, cast a long shadow across the stone and wood of the dock. A thick carpet had been placed over the wooden boards to a dais; a phalanx of soldiers in gleaming armour formed a barrier for the crowds to push against. Three years ago, the crowd would have been enraged at a Veretian monarch on Akielon soil. Two years ago, Damen was still forcibly uniting his kyroi. Today, there were cheers and sweetmeats and flags. They had worked hard, he and Damen. Laurent would not let a traitor tear down their work.
Laurent kept his gaze above the crowd. He climbed the steps to the dais, and only once, when he looked out at the faces of the crowd, so unlike a Veretian gathering, effusive and ebullient in their celebration, did he think of Damen's arrival in Vere, in chains. He immediately regretted that stray thought: that way lay frustrating, conflicted feelings, when what he most needed was focus. This journey was a diplomatic triumph, the capstone of three years of planning and peacetime negotiation.
Damen stood at the top of the dais. The sounds of the crowd, the snapping of banners and the cry of the birds became distant. The Akielon sun was clear and hot, and Laurent felt exposed and alive and present in that light. Damen was tall, and kingship suited his frame, as gold did, as the white tunic did.
"I welcome you to my home," said Damen, and extended his arms.
They met, amidst the pageantry and mewing seabirds. King Laurent and King Damianos, Vere and Akielos, standing together. When Damen clasped their arms together and kissed him on both cheeks, Laurent remembered suddenly the sense of standing at the man's shoulder as they fought through a group of raiders. It was good to be at his side again.
Then there was feasting, of course, and statecraft. The court of Akielos was a revelation for Laurent. Very much like Damen, the tone was blunt and open, wary but hopeful. Deceit here was painfully, obviously telegraphed. Laurent sat upright on a low stone couch at the highest table, eating olives that were plumper and darker than anything exported to Vere.
"Your spies are dreadfully obvious," he said. "I'm not surprised."
Damen raised a goblet in his direction. "Thank you. Perhaps we can arrange an exchange of some sort; you seem fond of the olives."
Laurent tore bread with his fingers – it was mostly fingers here, even at the high tables – and dipped it in the dish of oil. He watched his courtiers mingle with Damen's, watched the inevitable flirting, the pets teasing Akielon nobles who had no idea what to make of the decorated creatures that pouted and performed as no educated Akielon slave would dare. The pets were everywhere, in bright clothes and outrageous coiffures. Vere was determined to be more grandiose and vulgar than Akielos could imagine. Laurent loved them for it.
A continuous stream of people passed the high table to pay their respects: Akielon nobles, Veretian aristocrats and their pets. Laurent nodded to some, ignored others depending on where they were in his favour. Damen lounged beside him, and watched, with an expression of indulgence that made Laurent both want to smile and to pinch him under the table. Instead, he waited as two gaily dressed pets made elaborate courtesies at the table, their cups held high, the better to display the trailing ribbons from their sleeves. Laurent took one of those cups and raised it to the pets. Before he could bring it to his lips, though, Damen knocked it from his grip.
The dining hall fell silent as the cup bounced across the marble floor, splashing red in bright stripes over the white stone, and spattering the robes of the pets. The pets made hasty apologies and hurried to their respective partners, while servants moved to quickly clean the spilt wine.
"An accident only, no offense is taken," Damen said with a wide smile, and gestured for the serving women to move among the tables. The conversation slowly built again, and soon the hall was as loud as before, though Laurent was pleased with the wary glances towards the tasters who stood conspicuously behind the high table. Nobody was quite as enthusiastic with their drinks as before.
Damen reclined again on the couch. "Why did you do that?" he asked, mildly. He picked at the meat on his platter, and ate a little with such nonchalance that Laurent beamed. He had taught his Akielon barbarian to dissemble.
He pushed the tip of a knife into a soft cheese and sliced a small piece away. "I want everyone to know how deeply you care for my safety," he said, and lifted the knifepoint to his mouth.
---
The Veretians had been given quarters with the most spectacular views: brilliant blue ocean and sheer, imposing cliffs. This put them at the highest part of the castle, which was, not coincidentally, the most easily secured. Laurent raised an eyebrow at the guards. Damen's spies had evidently tripped across the rumours that Laurent had been tracking. The guards had been instructed to remain discreet, for some Akielon definition of discreet, but their constant presence failed to reassure Laurent. He didn't need diligent soldiers getting in the way of his own investigation.
Though the windows were wide and glassless, they all looked down over sheer rocky drops to the water, impossible for intruders to scale. It was not the kind of architecture that leant itself to secret passageways or hidden doors, but there were several high alcoves that held statues and cascading plants. There was a likely place overlooking the central square that served as a meeting place for Laurent's council members and other aristocrats. Early the next day, far too early for most of his courtiers, Laurent slipped behind a seven-foot marble sphinx, and concealed behind the broad wings, climbed easily to the alcove above it.
The aspect was perfect, as he'd judged it to be. On the smooth white marble a folded blanket had been placed, and beside it, a bowl of oranges and a skin of wine. Somewhat irked, Laurent spread out the blanket and sat pushed into the corner of the alcove, where he could see people but none could see him.
As he expected, very soon after, he heard an exhalation, and the sound of hands moving over the sphinx. Damen's curls appeared at the alcove, and he nimbly pulled himself over the edge and into the small space beside Laurent.
"Have I made myself predictable?" Laurent bunched his legs up in the alcove, to make room for Damen's ridiculous bulk. The top half of him seemed to fill the alcove. Surely they would be seen.
"Pleasantly so." Damen swung an arm around Laurent's shoulders, and there was immediately so much more space that Laurent couldn't complain.
He pushed the oranges in Damen's direction. "What were you hoping to catch, leaving bait like this?"
"Fruit? That's how we catch the pika," said Damen. He picked one up and threw it in the air, catching it again.
The name was irksomely unfamiliar to Laurent, so he raised an eyebrow. It was a gesture that Laurent had found useful as a bluff, but it did not fool Damen.
"It's a kind of shrew." Damen pushed his nail against the rind of the fruit and peeled it. "Makes an annoying noise, but the pelt has some value." He broke open the orange with his thumbs and separated a segment, offering it.
Laurent ignored the proffered fruit. "How illuminating." He should be angrier, he told himself, there should be some witty remark to throw in Damen's face but instead, Laurent was surrounded by him, overwhelmed by the proximity of him. He leaned his head back, and felt the weight of Damen's shoulder there.
Damen sighed, a sound of contentment, and pressed a kiss just above Laurent's ear. "This is the first moment I've had to myself for weeks."
Laurent felt his face grow warm, and suppressed an urge to scowl. Nobody sees you, he reminded himself, except for Damen. "I suppose I should be honoured that you'd choose to spend it with me."
Damen's expression was so effortlessly, openly happy, that Laurent wondered what it was to feel so freely. "There is no other person I would choose."
Servants began to bustle across the space, with breakfast dishes, clean linens, all the things required to keep a household. Laurent's Chamberlain came, took an overly generous cup of spiced wine and settled on a wide bench. Soon he was surrounded by a small crowd of courtiers, all voicing complaints. The bread was unleavened, the wine too strong, the beds were too hard. The rooms too hot, too cold, too foreign. Could the Chamberlain just bring this problem to the attention of the king? Did the Chamberlain have any idea of Laurent's mood this morning?
"Is this really what you came to hear? Court husbandry?" Damen asked, softly.
Laurent shook his hair away from his ear; it tickled when Damen talked. "It's more an absence of questions that informs me. How long have you known about the assassination rumours?"
"How long have you..?" Damen breathed out sharply, all the softness gone from his shoulders. "You might have told me yourself."
"I didn't want to spoil the visit," Laurent said. A vein pulsed in Damen's neck and his jaw was clenched tight.
"It would spoil the visit if you were killed. Just a little." Damen was getting better at hiding his anger in his voice, but Laurent felt the physicality of it in his body.
He took Damen's hand, and pushed his fingertips into the knuckles, kneading it. "It would be a good way to start a war, and I think we've had enough of that for a few generations."
Damn curled his fingers between Laurent's. "We have two men in the dungeon, caught bringing poisons into the city."
Hence the overabundance of tasters at the feast. "Ah, that's what happened to them. They cost a small fortune to hire; I expect recompense." Pleased, Laurent took an orange himself, and peeled it.
Damen snatched the orange from him. "What do you mean, bringing poisoners into my country? Into my capital!"
"As if being in the capital somehow makes it worse," said Laurent. "Someone in my court put a price on my royal personage; I thought it sensible to take them up on the offer. If I know who is trying to kill me and how, I can more easily avoid it."
"You hired your own assassins, to try to kill you, in my city, during a Royal visit." Damen said it very calmly, as if trying to understand it better.
"And thank you for thwarting me," said Laurent. "Now I have no idea from where the next attempt might come."
Damen made an explosive noise, and pushed at Laurent, his face thunderous. Laurent stared up at him, wondering if throttling was the next thing coming, but Damen slid his legs over the alcove and dropped to the ground.
"Your Majesty!" many surprised voices said. Laurent peered over the edge and saw a group of serving women, with bundled laundry in their arms, watching Damen stalk down the hall, angry and silent. The faces turned upwards, and Laurent hunched into his alcove. He didn't want to lose his vantage point, despite Damen's tantrum.
---
The next attempt came during a ceremonial hunt.
Veretians hunted boar through forests, on spindly-legged hot-blooded horses. In Akielos, the prey was lion, the terrain was mountainous, and the mounts were short-legged but sturdy. The hunt was given a perfunctory blessing by a priest with a beard to his navel and a gold-tipped spear, and then they departed for the foothills. From the packs lashed to each saddle, the intent was to stay out all day in the hot sun with few servants to attend them. Many of Laurent's court elected to remain in the castle, and Laurent heard several comments on the uncouth nature of the gathering.
It was uncouth; the huntsmen were astonishingly forward with their king, laughing with him, passing a wineskin back and forth across the withers of their mounts. Laurent rode at the front, with Damen and his chief huntsman, while broad-shouldered mastiffs trotted happily along the stony path into the hills. The dun he rode was equally as enthusiastic as the dogs, and walked with an easy stride over rocks and shale. Laurent could not have explained it to his ministers, but to be invited here was to be welcomed among Damen's friends. It was an honour beyond value. Damen may still be angry about the poisoners, but Laurent had learned by now that a spat would not erode the trust between them. There had been many spats in the years since the war, and Damen had forgiven all of them.
Markos, the huntsman, a burly man with skin like leather, spat into the scrubby bushes after they'd been riding for an hour.
"Not the greatest prospects. Should have let me trap a few and release them," he said, gruffly. "Give you a better ride that way."
Damen shook his head and hefted his spear. "You know there's no sport in that." They had not spoken privately again, he and Laurent, since their argument in the alcove.
Markos rolled his eyes. "Wonder if you'll still be saying that when we come home to those fancy lords with nothing but dust."
"To be honest, the only lions we've ever encountered in Vere were on crests," said Laurent. "You could probably mock one up with a tabby cat and a nice piece of fur. I've heard the pika has a pleasing pelt."
This produced a cheerful guffaw from Markos and his men. Damen said nothing, but watched a wild dog scampering over the rocks beside them.
"Jackal," he said. "Not a good sign."
Markos stood in his stirrups and looked around. "Late in the day for a jackal," he said. "What's he hanging about for?"
The jackal was joined by another, and another, skipping over the incline beside them, clambering up the drop to their left, until there was five of them trotting on the path before them. Markos slung his spear into the sheath across his back, and drew a long knife from his boot. His men rearranged themselves into a protective detail: two on each side of the kings, Markos to the front and another behind. The mastiffs padded silent and hunched beside the hunt, ready to spring.
Past the next bend they saw what had drawn the carrion-eaters out in the heat of the day: a young boy, a goatherd from his crook, lay sprawled across a boulder. His eyes were open, as was his throat. Blood trickled lazily down to the path, where a jackal lapped at it thirstily. Wide-winged birds and jackals scattered at the riders' approach and the mastiffs chased off the last of them.
Laurent was glad he had insisted on a sword. He dismounted with the other men and drew it now, keeping the point low and ready as he examined the boy's body. "This was no lion, I assume."
Damen shook his head. "That was a good steel blade. Purposeful." He turned a circle on the narrow path and Laurent followed his gaze. The mountain rose above them to the left, and fell away to the right. It wasn't an ideal place for an ambush but it would serve. He met Damen's eyes, and saw that his expression was grim. Behind Laurent, Markos moved in close, his broad armoured back intended as a shield.
"We'll move in a group," said Damen. "Keep formation…" Between words, the first crossbow bolt came singing from the rocks above them. It bounced off Markos' shoulder blade, but the second sank deep into the meat of his arm. He turned, ignoring it, and ran towards the hidden assailant, spear high. The mastiffs ran with him, lips drawn up over long teeth. The huntsmen and some of the kyroi followed, a mighty roar of outrage carrying them onto the attackers.
Damen was already up on his horse. Laurent followed him, glad of the smaller mounts that let him vault aboard with his sword drawn. They rode hard and fast down the narrow path, taking the chance bought for them by Damen's loyal huntsmen and his kyroi. Other Akielon lords and the few Veretian nobles who had braved the hunt brought up the rear. Behind them came more whistling of quarrels, screams and the baying of the dogs. Laurent rode low over his horse's neck, and fervently hoped that Damen was familiar with these paths. At this speed, a fall would be fatal, both likely to go over the precipice.
Wood clattered under hooves as they crossed a bridge. Laurent saw that Damen waited just over the bridge, his horse prancing with agitation. Then his stomach dropped as the bridge lurched. He slowed, looking over his shoulder, trying to find the source of the problem.
The edge of the bridge was slipping, and Laurent saw mud and gleaming timber where water had been redirected to eat the foundations. A lot of planning had gone into this scheme, he thought wildly. He halted, hoping that stillness would slow the collapse of the bridge while he thought. Forward or backward? Either could send the bridge sliding into the ravine below. Think, Laurent, he told himself. Think and act.
The rest of the hunt skidded to a halt at the edge of the bridge, hooves splashing and mud flying. Nobody moved, and Laurent couldn't tell if it was because they didn't want to dislodge the precarious bridge or because they were waiting for him to fall to his death. It irked him, irrationally, that he could not read them better. The bridge shifted again, with a low groan that Laurent felt in his spine. His horse whinnied, clattering nervously on the wood.
Something hit his face, a spray of pebbles, to catch his attention. "To me!" Damen shouted at him, still holding stones. "Stop gawking, Laurent, ride!"
Laurent closed his legs on the horse and it sprung forward. The bridge slipped further with the momentum of movement. Someone behind shrieked in fear. Three strides, two. The angle of the bridge was steeper now, like riding up a staircase, and the wood moved beneath him. Laurent leaned forward, urged the horse on with hands and legs, and the willing beast bunched for the final leap to solid land. Laurent didn't see the bridge fall, but he heard the great crash of it, the snap of timbers and the crack of rocks. Damen had him by the shoulders, arms around him, almost unseating him.
Laurent pushed himself upright again. "I'm all right," he said, and regretted how waspish that sounded, but the court was watching: he mustn't show vulnerability now. In all likelihood, he who was behind the plot was on the other side of the bridge, observing.
On the other side of the bridge, he thought, more clearly, and took careful stock, noting names and expressions. There were few who had the financial wherewithal to hire so many men, and even so, he must have an accomplice to travel ahead to Akielos and make the arrangements. He wouldn't accuse until all of the players were within his grasp.
"Stop scheming," Damen muttered, then nudged his horse forward. "Where is Markos? Who of the huntsmen remain?" The distance was far enough that he had to shout.
The crowd of nobles parted, and Markos limped into sight, a kerchief tied over the wound on his arm, and a broken bolt in his thigh. He peered down into the ravine and whistled.
"Nice work. You've got quite the ride home now, your Majesties." He sagged where he stood. A young kyros propped him with one arm, and took up the tale.
"There were five of them, Damen. Gutter scum with shiny new crossbows – whipcord bowstrings, all of them. Meant to drive us towards the bridge, I would wager. We set the dogs on the last of them. They're not getting off this mountain with all their limbs."
Damen nodded. "We won't make it to the ford while there's still light. I'll take shelter somewhere secure."
"Majesty," said Markos. "This trash, they couldn't think their way out of a wine barrel. There's no way they organised this. And the crossbows…"
"I understand," said Damen. "I'll keep watch for others, and you do the same." He considered the rest of the hunt, mud-spattered Veretians and outraged kyroi. "Take the hunt, have them housed at Chrysanthos. Send a rider to the city, have reinforcements despatched."
Markos gave a salute, energised by the command, and turned to bellow at the rest of the nobles. "Back aboard, now!" He ignored the bickering and complaints, and made as if to slap a Veretian marquise on the leg with the flat of his blade. The man stared, appalled, then hurriedly mounted.
Damen leaned against his own horse for a moment and considered Laurent. "Come on, we need to keep moving."
"They're surprisingly compliant about leaving you all alone without protection," said Laurent. His skin prickled: whoever had done the groundwork was still out here. He had set up his men to die on the end of Akielon swords, but there was no chance that he was among them. Too dangerous, too much work. The strategy had a familiar tang of thuggish cowardice to it, but Laurent could not bring a face or a name to mind.
Damen turned towards a winding path that was surely meant only for goats. "I wouldn't be much of a King if I couldn't defend myself," he said. "And I've been riding these paths all my life."
"You lived in the castle all your life; you still fell for Kastor's treachery." Laurent had to ride single file behind Damen; there wasn't room for two horses abreast.
"I don't have to worry about Akielon politics. Those crossbows were Veretian." Damen urged his horse between two enormous boulders, and the path beyond was even more narrow, barely a packed line in the gravel.
Laurent's horse balked at the narrow gap. "I didn't mean for trouble to spill over like this," he called up towards Damen. We're still in danger, he wanted to say, but could not shape the words. Instead, he thumped his heels into the horse's side and it bucked, miserable. "Come on, you mule." He slipped from its back and pulled it forward towards the opening.
Damen dismounted, and led his horse back to Laurent. "What did you think would happen? What am I to you, that you bring assassins and your own internal conflicts here to resolve them?"
He reached through the gap in the stones and snatched at Laurent's reins but the horse flattened its ears and pulled back. Laurent opened his mouth to tell Damen to stop tormenting the poor beast, then something landed lightly on the top of the boulder. A rippling snarl cut through the air, on and on, eventually becoming a barking roar.
The lion was smaller than Laurent would have thought from heraldry, but even so, the jaws were easily as big around as his head. This close, Laurent could see the claws, long and yellow and viciously pointed, extending from fleshy sheaths in the wide flat paws.
On the other side of the boulder, Damen's face was grey. "Stay still," he whispered. "It will take the horse first."
Poor brave horse, thought Laurent, but he let the reins go. Screaming, the creature spun and bolted. The lion leapt, but not for the horse. Instead, it hit a man who had been hiding behind the second boulder, rolling him over and over as he screamed and beat at it with his fist and a knife.
Laurent eased away from the heaving, screaming mass of legs and fur and teeth.
Damen stood beside him, a knife in his own hand. "Is that…?"
"Govart," said Laurent, with some satisfaction. "Yes, that fits perfectly."
Govart managed to get himself free, somehow, and staggered down the path a little way. The lion pushed its paws outwards, and stretched, long and lean in the afternoon sun. Then, as a stable cat plays with a rat, it bounded joyfully after Govart on the path, paws splayed wide as it leapt.
"Come on," said Damen, and tugged Laurent between the boulders and towards his horse.
---
The light was failing by the time the tired horse stumbled up to the hunters' cabin. Laurent had rarely felt more filthy, even after a battle. Somehow, sweating under Akielon sunshine, riding dusty roads and fleeing for one's life added up to a cake of grime on the skin.
"I'll fetch water," he said, not completely unselfishly. "You walk the horse, check the cabin."
Damen was still angry. Laurent could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way he clenched his jaw. What did the man expect, he said to himself, pulling the bucket up from the deep well. Laurent had done everything he could to winnow this assassination plot down to a manageable size by the time they got to Damen's homeland. He honestly did not know how it could have been managed differently, or to a better outcome. He heard the bucket splash against the water at the bottom of the well, gave it a moment to submerge, and hoisted it up. Damen was a stubborn, naïve, wilfully simple fool, he decided. The bucket slopped water down his leg as he walked. Akielons were stupid, stupid people. Their buckets were unbalanced. Their plumbing was atrocious. Their horses were ugly. Their predators ridiculous. Their bridges appallingly badly designed. He hated Akielons and all that they stood for.
Damen caught him around the waist, pressed him against a wall of rock, and kissed him, hard and insistent, with his body against Laurent's. The stone was warm from the day's sunlight. Laurent opened his mouth to protest, tasted salt on Damen's lips, and lost himself.
The bucket teetered and fell, flooding across their feet, soaking their boots, and Damen came back to himself. He freed Laurent, though he seemed hesitant to pull his lips away.
"I'm sorry," said Damen.
Laurent shifted, leaned against Damen's chest. "You should be. I didn't pack another pair of boots."
Damen smiled, awkward suddenly. He picked up the bucket. "I'm sorry to have ambushed you. I just, I wanted to make sure you weren't hurt, and then, I…"
Laurent put fingertips to his jaw to quiet him, and followed it with a kiss of his own. There was nothing so astonishing, nothing that made him feel safer and more sure than seeing Damen all at ends with himself. Damen, who was all assurance and confidence and courage, moving with tentative gestures, afraid of overstepping boundaries, taking such care not to do harm. "I am all in one piece," he said, softly. "But I meant it about the boots and I don't like cold feet."
Damen rested his forehead against Laurent's for a moment, then turned to the well. "There's firewood and kindling in the cabin. Once the sun is gone, it will get chilly."
They carried the water together, and tended the poor, exhausted horse.
"I have to wash," said Laurent, and left Damen. He filled the bucket again and again, dousing himself in icy water and scrubbing with a handful of leaves until his skin was raw and stinging from cold. He pulled on his sweat-stained clothes, refilled the bucket and carried it down to the cabin.
Damen waited for him at the door of the cabin, looking somewhat abashed.
"You're blushing," said Laurent, with narrowed eyes. "Why?"
Damen pushed open the door, to reveal a leaping fire and a table set with food. Fruit and wine and soft bread baked in Veretian style, far more than could have fitted into one saddlebag.
Laurent looked again at Damen's face. His expression, half-shy and half-embarrassed, was as satisfying as the food was going to be. "You planned this."
"It was meant to be a surprise," said Damen.
"I am truly surprised." Laurent stepped inside. "The lion, particularly, was a spectacular touch. And all it cost you was a wooden bridge. Oh, and Govart's traditional fee, which, I believe, is one copper sol."
Damen rubbed his face. "The ravine makes for a good excuse to stay the night, it didn't seem unreasonable that once we were across, someone could plead fatigue."
Laurent poured the wine. "Oh, someone could plead fatigue? Not Damianos, mighty hunter and warrior King. No, it would be the pale milksop of Vere, wouldn't it?" He sipped the wine. It was excellent. A thought occurred to him. "This is a lover's nest, isn't it? It's all too practised – you've done this before. How did you mean to suggest that we stop?" He lowered his voice, suggestively, and fluttered his eyelashes, putting a hand to his forehead. "Why, Laurent, you're looking weary. Perhaps you need to lie down? I believe there is a rude hunter's cabin not more than a mile hence…"
Damen, laughing, caught up his face and kissed him. "Something like that, yes." And then his hands were gentle, and his lips hesitant, and Laurent no longer wondered what it was to feel love freely.
---
The morning came in cold and frost-rimed. Laurent found himself curled into Damen's body, legs interlocked in a way that kept Laurent's narrow feet warm, his head on Damen's chest. Outside the pile of blankets and furs, Laurent's breath curled out in wisps of steam. Akielos was a generous country in many ways: she gave up every scrap of sun-warmth in the night. Damen took a deep breath and pushed his hand through Laurent's tangled hair. He made a happy, incoherent noise, and thrust idly against Laurent's body in his sleep. Laurent kissed his throat once; it was bristly with whiskers. He was glad that Damen still slept. Laurent felt giddy with happiness, the cold air felt light and volatile in his chest, and he did not know what he might do if Damen's eyes were open, if Damen were to speak. It was better to lie still, breath gently, and marvel that one person could engender such emotion, when Laurent had carefully built his mind to care little. He lay quietly in Damen's arms for a long time.
Eventually, Damen stroked his fingers across Laurent's back, and smiled, an expression of delight. "I did not know where I was for a moment," he said, and leaned up on an elbow to kiss him.
The sun was up and the horse was hungry by the time they rose and dressed.
"It's half a day at the most, from this approach," said Damen. "There's farmland, we should be able to pick up another horse there."
They rode double, at an easy pace, down a shallow incline that lead them at the base of the foothills, to spreading wheat fields.
"This is a much more pleasant path," said Laurent. "Why did you make us climb up though all that scrub and shale?"
"Wouldn't be much of a hunt if the going were easy," said Damen.
"Oh, of course," said Laurent. "I'd hate to suffer the indignity of an easy hunt."
They stopped at a farmhouse, and the farmer's wife was surprisingly sanguine about lending her king a horse.
"We've only got but one, and there's no saddle. Just harness for the cart," she said. "You mind you send him home again. We'll be needing him come harvest. If it pleases your Majesty," she added, with perfunctory courtesy.
Laurent had to hold his breath to stop himself from laughing out loud at the horse: a huge piebald dray, with feathered feet like soup plates and a bullish head. Damen, however, gamely mounted the creature bareback, and swung him out onto the path.
"You look positively regal," said Laurent. His horse had to jog trot to keep up.
"Thank you," said Damen. "It's all in the posture."
They rode in silence for a while. Laurent was torn between laughter at Damen's serene expression atop the carthorse, and the beauty of Akielos' wheat fields. An idle breeze moved through the grain in gentle ripples, and swallows dipped and swooped over the sea of gold. It was a softer aspect to the country, thought Laurent, something to protect, something thriving.
They were nearing a village now. Laurent saw the mounts from the hunt grazing in the meadow by an inn. This brief moment of isolation and privacy would soon be over.
"I am sorry," he said, into the silence. "I brought trouble to your shores, knowingly. That was disrespectful. But all of this?" he waved at the fields. "We've both given up so much, for this, and I did not want to see it toppled. I just couldn't think of another way."
Damen halted, and reached down for Laurent's hand. "When you don't know what else to do," he said, brushing his lips across Laurent's knuckles, "you might ask me for help."
It was so ridiculously simple, thought Laurent. He must remember this, he told himself. Sometimes, and not just in Akielos, it was safe to take the clearest path. He had taught his barbarian to dissemble; his barbarian had taught him to trust.
People boiled out of the inn, shouting and pointing towards the two men on horseback. Their time alone was measured in moments now. Laurent looked up at Damen on his ridiculous horse. "Thank you," he said. "Most especially for feeding Govart to a lion. I don't believe I can repay you the favour."
Damen smiled. "Don't hire any more assassins, and I will consider us even."