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Laurent repeated the question slowly in the language of Akielos. The words came out before he could stop them. “I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.”
His blue eyes were as innocent as the sky; only if you looked carefully could you see something genuine in them. Such as dislike.
The instant he had entered the room, he had weighed the option of physically overpowering Laurent, and dismissed it. He would not make it out of the palace alive if he hurt or killed Vere’s Crown Prince. That decision had not come without some regret.
How dare any one of you speak the word honour? I know your kind. A Veretian who treats honourably with an Akielon will be gutted with his own sword. It’s your countryman who taught me that. You can thank him for the lesson.” “Thank who?” Damen pushed the words out, somehow, past the pain, but he knew. He knew. “Damianos, the dead Prince of Akielos,” said Laurent. “The man who killed my brother.”
Inspecting Damen’s back, Orlant had—not without some pride—proclaimed the Prince a cast-iron bitch, and clapped Damen cheerfully on the shoulder, turning him momentarily ashen.
It had to be Laurent’s looks that inspired the allegiance of his men, and not Laurent himself.
Since the cross, his feelings towards Laurent had solidified from prickling dislike into something hard and implacable.
“Is there anyone at this court who isn’t my enemy?” “Not if I can help it,” Laurent said.
“Nephew. You were not invited to these discussions.” “And yet, here I am. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?” said Laurent.
In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him.
If you put everything else aside, you had to admire it for sheer organisational efficiency. If you did not put everything else aside, you recalled that this was Laurent, and that he had lied and cheated in order to bring this about.
It was wasteful of nature to have bestowed those looks on one whose character was so unpleasant.
Damen had never before seen half a dozen soldiers reduced to compliant housekeeping by the sheer force of one man’s personal arrogance.
“If you mean excluding your attempt to break my arm.” “I mean excluding my attempt to break your arm,” said Damen.
Damen realised, suddenly, that what he was witnessing was an exercise in sheer iron-willed self-control.
“It wears off,” said Damen. Adding, because he was not above enjoying the truth as a form of minor sadism, “After a few hours.”
“So was my answer. I don’t know how this interrogation found its way into my bed. May I ask where I can expect it to travel next?”
“Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.”
“when you were such a lovely boy.”
Damen felt a certain amount of empathy with the man: Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing.
“I would never ask you to do anything you found distasteful,” said Laurent. “Looking at you is distasteful,” said Nicaise.
He returned his eyes to the road, and the first part of his journey. South, and home.
