Captive Prince: Volume One

by S. U. Pacat

  Here and there, useful information emerged. Pets weren’t guarded, which explained the lack of men at the perimeter of the harem. Pets came and went as they pleased. Damen was the exception. It meant that once past these guards, it was unlikely that he would encounter others.

  Here and there, the subject of Laurent was raised.

  ‘Have you . . . ?’ said Jord to Damen, with a slowly spreading smile.

  ‘Between the ring fight and the lashing?’ said Damen, sourly. ‘No.’

  ‘They say he’s frigid.’

  Damen stared at him. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jord, ‘because he doesn’t—’

  ‘I meant why is he so,’ said Damen, cutting off Jord’s prosaic explanation firmly.

  ‘Why is snow cold?’ said Jord with a shrug.

  Damen frowned and changed the subject. Damen was not interested in Laurent’s proclivities. Since the cross, his feelings towards Laurent had solidified from prickling dislike into something hard and implacable.

  It was Orlant, finally, who asked the obvious question.

  ‘How’d you end up here, anyway?’

  ‘I wasn’t careful,’ said Damen, ‘and I made an enemy of the King.’

  ‘Kastor? Someone should stick it to that whoreson. Only a country of barbarian scum would put a bastard on the throne,’ said Orlant. ‘No offense.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Damen.

  On the seventh day, the Regent returned from Chastillon.

  The first Damen knew of it was the entrance of guards into his room that he didn’t recognise. They were not wearing the Prince’s livery. They had red cloaks, disciplined lines and unfamiliar faces. Their arrival provoked a heated argument between the Prince’s physician and a new man, one Damen had never seen before.

  ‘I don’t think he should move,’ said the Prince’s physician. Under the loaf of bread, he was frowning. ‘The wounds might open.’

  ‘They look closed to me,’ said the other. ‘He can stand.’

  ‘I can stand,’ Damen agreed. He demonstrated this remarkable ability. He thought he knew what was happening. Only one man other than Laurent had the authority to dismiss the Prince’s Guard.

  The Regent came into the room in full state, flanked by his red-cloaked Regent’s Guard and accompanied by liveried servants and two men of high rank. He dismissed both physicians, who made obeisances and vanished. Then he dismissed the servants and everyone else but the two men who had entered with him. His resulting lack of entourage did not detract from his power. Though technically he only held the throne in stewardship, and was addressed with the same honorific of ‘Royal Highness’ as Laurent, this was a man with the stature and presence of a King.

  Damen knelt. He would not make the same mistake with the Regent that he had made with Laurent. He remembered that he had recently slighted the Regent by beating Govart in the ring, which Laurent had arranged. The emotion he felt towards Laurent surfaced briefly; on the ground beside him, the chain from his wrist pooled. If someone had told him, six months ago, that he’d kneel, willingly, for Veretian nobility, he would have laughed in their face.

  Damen recognised the two men accompanying the Regent as Councillor Guion and Councillor Audin. Each wore the same heavy medallion on a thick linked chain: their chain of office.

  ‘Witness with your own eyes,’ said the Regent.

  ‘This is Kastor’s gift to the Prince. The Akielon slave,’ said Audin, in surprise. A moment later he fished out a square of silk and lifted it to his nose, as if to screen his sensibilities from affront. ‘What happened to his back? That’s barbaric.’

  It was, thought Damen, the first time he had heard the word ‘barbaric’ used to describe anything other than himself or his country.

  ‘This is what Laurent thinks of our careful negotiations with Akielos,’ said the Regent. ‘I ordered him to treat Kastor’s gift respectfully. Instead, he had the slave flogged almost to death.’

  ‘I knew the Prince was willful. I never thought him this destructive, this wild,’ said Audin, in a shocked, silk-muffled voice.

  ‘There’s nothing wild about it. This is a piece of intentional provocation, aimed at myself, and at Akielos. Laurent would like nothing better than for our treaty with Kastor to founder. He mouths platitudes in public, and in private—this.’

  ‘You see, Audin,’ said Guion. ‘It’s as the Regent warned us.’

  ‘The flaw is deep in Laurent’s nature. I thought he’d outgrow it. Instead, he grows steadily worse. Something must be done to discipline him.’

  ‘These actions cannot be supported,’ agreed Audin. ‘But what can be done? You cannot rewrite a man’s nature in ten months.’

  ‘Laurent disobeyed my order. No one knows that better than the slave. Perhaps we should ask him what should be done with my nephew.’

  Damen did not imagine he was serious, but the Regent came forward, and stood directly in front of him.

  ‘Look up, slave,’ the Regent said.

  Damen looked up. He saw again the dark hair and the commanding aspect, as well as the slight frown of displeasure that it seemed Laurent habitually elicited from his uncle. Damen remembered thinking that there was no familial resemblance between the Regent and Laurent, but now he saw that this was not quite true. Though his hair was dark, and silvered at the temples, the Regent had blue eyes.

  ‘I hear that you were once a soldier,’ said the Regent. ‘If a man disobeyed an order in the Akielon army, how would he punished?’

  ‘He would be publicly flogged and turned off,’ Damen said.

  ‘A public flogging,’ said the Regent, turning back to the two men who accompanied him. ‘That is not possible. But Laurent has grown so unmanageable in recent years, I wonder what would help him. What a shame that soldiers and princes are held to a different accounting.’

  ‘Ten months before his ascension . . . is it really a wise time to chastise your nephew?’ Audin spoke from behind the silk.

  ‘Shall I let him run wild, wrecking treaties, destroying lives? Warmongering? This is my fault. I have been too lenient.’

  ‘You have my support,’ said Guion.

  Audin was nodding slowly. ‘The Council will stand behind you, when they hear word of this. But perhaps we should discuss these matters elsewhere?’

  Damen watched the men depart. Long term peace with Akielos was obviously something that the Regent was working hard to bring about. The part of Damen that did not wish to raze to the ground the cross, the ring, and the palace containing them, reluctantly acknowledged that goal as admirable.

  The physician returned, and fussed, and servants came to make him comfortable, and then departed. And Damen was left alone in his rooms to think about the past.

  The battle of Marlas six years ago had ended with twinned, bloody successes for Akielos. An Akielon arrow, a stray lucky arrow on the wind, had taken the Veretian King in the throat. And Damen had killed the Crown Prince, Auguste, in single combat on the northern front.

  The battle had turned on Auguste’s death. The Veretian forces had quickly fallen into disarray, the death of their prince a staggering, dispiriting blow. Auguste had been a beloved leader, an indomitable fighter and an emblem of Veretian pride: he had rallied his men after the death of the King; he had lead the charge that decimated the Akielon northern flank; he had been the point on which wave after wave of Akielon fighters had broken.

  ‘Father, I can beat him,’ Damen had said, and receiving his father’s blessing he had ridden out from behind the lines and into the fight of his life.

  Damen hadn’t known that the younger brother had been on the field. Six years ago, Damen had been nineteen. Laurent would have been—thirteen, fourteen? It was young to fight in a battle like Marlas.

  It was too young to inherit. And with the Veretian King dead, and the Crown Prince dead, the King’s brother had stepped in as Regent, and his first act had been to call parley, accepting the terms of surrender, and ceding to Akielos the disputed l
ands of Delpha, which the Veretians called Delfeur.

  It was the reasonable act of a reasonable man; in person, the Regent seemed similarly levelheaded and sensible, though afflicted with an intolerable nephew.

  Damen did not know why his mind was returning to the fact of Laurent’s presence on the field that day. There was no fear of discovery. It was six years ago, and Laurent had been a boy, who by his own admission had been nowhere near the front. Even if that were not the case, Marlas had been chaos. Any glimpse of Damen would have been early in the battle, with Damen in full armour, including helm—or if by some miracle he had been seen later, shield and helm lost, by that time Damen had been covered in mud and blood and fighting for his life as they all had been.

  But if he were recognised: every man and woman in Vere knew the name of Damianos, prince-killer. Damen had known how dangerous it would be for him if his identity were discovered; he had not known how near to discovery he had come, and by the very person who had the most cause to want him dead. All the more reason why he had to get free of this place.

  You have a scar, Laurent had said.

  ‘What did you tell the Regent?’ Radel demanded. The last time Radel had looked at him like that, he’d lifted his hand and hit Damen, hard. ‘You heard me. What did you tell him about the lashing?’

  ‘What should I have told him?’ Damen gazed back at him calmly.

  ‘What you should have done,’ said Radel, ‘is shown loyalty to your Prince. In ten months—’

  ‘—he will be King,’ said Damen. ‘Until then, aren’t we subject to the rule of his uncle?’

  There was a long, cold pause.

  ‘I see it has not taken you long to learn how to make your way here,’ Radel said.

  Damen said, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘You have been summoned to court,’ said Radel. ‘I hope you can walk.’

  With that, a parade of servants entered the room. The preparations that they began eclipsed any Damen had experienced, including those that had been made before the ring.

  He was washed, pampered, primped and perfumed. They carefully skirted his healing back but oiled everywhere else, and the oil they used contained gold pigment, so that his limbs gleamed in the torchlight like those of a golden statue.

  A servant approached with a series of three small bowls and a delicate brush, and brought his face close to Damen’s, gazing at his features with an expression of concentration, the brush poised. The bowls contained paint for his face. He had not had to suffer the humiliation of paint since Akielos. The servant touched the paint-wet brush-tip to skin, gilt paint to line his eyes, and Damen felt the cold thickness of it on his lashes, and cheeks, and lips.

  This time Radel did not say, ‘No jewellery,’ and four enamelled silver caskets were brought into the room and thrown open. From their gleaming contents, Radel made several selections. The first was a series of fine, near-invisible strings, on which hung tiny rubies spaced at intervals; they were woven into Damen’s hair. Then gold for his brow and gold for his waist. Then a leash, snapped onto the collar. The leash was gold too, a fine gold chain, terminating in a golden rod for his handler, the cat carved at one end holding a garnet in its mouth. Much more of this and he was going to clank as he walked.

  But there was more. There was a final piece; another fine gold chain looped between twin gold devices. Damen didn’t recognise what it was until a servant stepped forward and snapped the nipple clamps in place.

  He jerked away—too late, besides which it only took a jab to his back to send him to his knees. As his chest rose and fell, the little chain swayed.

  ‘The paint’s smudged,’ said Radel to one of the servants, after assessing Damen’s body and face. ‘There. And there. Reapply it.’

  ‘I thought the Prince didn’t like paint,’ said Damen.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Radel.

  It was the custom of the Veretian nobility to dress in subdued splendour, distinguishing themselves from the garish brightness of the pets, on whom they lavished their greatest displays of wealth. It meant that Damen, cast in gold and escorted through the double doors at the end of a leash, could be mistaken for nothing but what he was. In the crowded chamber, he stood out.

  So did Laurent. His bright head was instantly recognisable. Damen’s gaze fixed on him. Left and right, the courtiers were falling silent and stepping back, clearing a path to the throne.

  A red carpet stretched from the double doors to the dais, woven with hunting scenes and apple trees and a border of acanthus. The walls were draped in tapestries, where the same rich red predominated. The throne was swathed in the same colour.

  Red, red, red. Laurent clashed.

  Damen felt his thoughts scattering. Concentration was keeping him upright. His back ached and throbbed.

  He forcibly detached his gaze from Laurent, and turned it to the director of whatever public spectacle was now about to unfold. At the end of the long carpet, the Regent sat on the throne. In his left hand, resting across his knee, he held a golden sceptre of office. And behind him, in full robes of state, was the Veretian Council.

  The Council was the seat of Veretian power. In the days of King Aleron, the Council’s role had been to advise on matters of state. Now the Regent and Council held the nation in stewardship until Laurent’s ascension. Comprised of five men and no women, the Council was arrayed in a formidable backdrop on the dais. Damen recognised Audin and Guion. A third man he knew from his extreme age to be Councillor Herode. The others must therefore be Jeurre and Chelaut, though he could not tell one from the other. All five wore their medallions around their necks, the mark of their office.

  Also on the dais standing slightly back from the throne, Damen saw Councillor Audin’s pet, the child, done up even more garishly than Damen. The only reason Damen outdid him in sheer volume of gilt was because, being several times the little boy’s size, he had substantially more skin available to act as canvas.

  A herald called out Laurent’s name, and all of his titles.

  Walking forward, Laurent joined Damen and his handler in their approach. Damen was starting to view the carpet as an endurance trial. It was not just the presence of Laurent. The correct series of prostrations before the throne seemed specifically designed to ruin a week’s worth of healing. Finally it was done.

  Damen knelt, and Laurent bent his knee the appropriate amount.

  From the courtiers lining the chamber, Damen heard one or two murmured comments about his back. He supposed that set against the gold paint, it looked rather gruesome. That, he realised suddenly, was the point.

  The Regent wanted to discipline his nephew, and, with the Council behind him, had chosen to do it in public.

  A public flogging, Damen had said.

  ‘Uncle,’ said Laurent.

  Straightening, Laurent’s posture was relaxed and his expression was undisturbed, but there was something subtle in the set of his shoulders that Damen recognised. It was the look of a man settling in for a fight.

  ‘Nephew,’ said the Regent. ‘I think you can guess why we are here.’

  ‘A slave laid hands on me and I had him flogged for it.’ Calmly.

  ‘Twice,’ said the Regent. ‘Against my orders. The second time, against the advice that it might lead to his death. Almost, it did.’

  ‘He’s alive. The advice was incorrect.’ Again, calmly.

  ‘You were also advised of my order: that in my absence the slave wasn’t to be touched,’ said the Regent. ‘Search your memory. You’ll find that advice was accurate. Yet you ignored it.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I know you are not so subservient towards Akielos that you would want the slave’s actions to go unpunished just because he is a gift from Kastor.’

  The blue-eyed composure was faultless. Laurent, Damen thought with contempt, was good at talking. He wondered if the Regent was regretting doing this in public. But the Regent did not look perturbed, or even surprised. Well, he would be used to dealing with
Laurent.

  ‘I can think of several reasons why you should not have a King’s gift beaten almost to death immediately after the signing of a treaty. Not the least because I ordered it. You claim to have administered a just punishment. But the truth is different.’

  The Regent gestured, and a man stepped forward.

  ‘The Prince offered me a gold coin if I could flog the slave to death.’

  It was the moment when sympathy palpably swung away from Laurent. Laurent, realising it, opened his mouth to speak, but the Regent cut him off.

  ‘No. You’ve had your chance to make apologies, or give reasonable excuses. You chose instead to show unrepentant arrogance. You do not yet have the right to spit in the face of kings. At your age, your brother was leading armies and bringing glory to his country. What have you achieved in the same time? When you shirked your responsibilities at court, I ignored it. When you refused to do your duty on the border at Delfeur, I let you have your way. But this time your disobedience has threatened an accord between nations. The Council and I have met and agreed we must take action.’

  The Regent spoke in a voice of unquestioned power that was heard in every corner of the chamber.

  ‘Your lands of Varenne and Marche are forfeit, along with all troops and monies that accompany them. You retain only Acquitart. For the next ten months, you will find your income reduced, and your retinue diminished. You will petition to me directly for any expenses. Be grateful you retain Acquitart, and that we have not taken this decree further.’

  Shock at the sanctions rippled across the assembly. There was outrage on some faces. But on many others there was something quietly satisfied, and the shock was less. In that moment, it was obvious which of the courtiers comprised the Regent’s faction, and which Laurent’s. And that Laurent’s was smaller.

  ‘Be grateful I retain Acquitart,’ said Laurent, ‘which by law you cannot take away and which besides has no accompanying troops and little strategic importance?’

  ‘Do you think it pleases me to discipline my own nephew? No uncle acts with a heavier heart. Shoulder your responsibilities—ride to Delfeur—show me you have even a drop of your brother’s blood and I will joyfully restore it all.’