‘A gift?’ he said, as he might have said to Laurent.
‘The Prince doesn’t need it,’ said Guerin.
*
His escort arrived.
It was six men, and one of them, already mounted, was Jord, who looked him right in the eye and said, ‘You kept your word.’
His horse was being led forward. Not only a riding horse but a pack horse, a sword, clothing, supplies. Is there something you want? Laurent had asked him once. He wondered what ornate Veretian parting gift might lurk in those packs and knew instinctively that there was none. He had maintained from the beginning that he had wanted only his freedom. And that was exactly what he had been given.
‘I always meant to leave,’ he said.
He swung up into the saddle. His eyes passed around the fort’s large courtyard, from the great gates to the dais with its wide, shallow steps. He remembered their first arrival, the stony reception of Lord Touars, the feeling of standing inside a Veretian fort for the first time. He saw the gatesmen at their post, a soldier going about his duty. He felt Jord draw up beside him.
‘He’s gone for a ride,’ said Jord. ‘It was his habit in the palace, too, when he needed to clear his head. Not the type for goodbyes.’
‘No,’ said Damen.
He made to ride out, but Jord put a hand on his reins. ‘Wait,’ said Jord. ‘I wanted to say—thank you. For standing up for Aimeric.’
‘I didn’t do it for Aimeric,’ said Damen.
Jord nodded. And then he said, ‘When the men heard you were leaving, they wanted—we wanted—to see you off.’ He said, ‘There’s time.’
He gave a wave of his hand and men were coming into the fort’s enormous courtyard, the Prince’s men, and under the ever-rising sun they were forming up in front of the dais. Damen looked out over the immaculate lines and let out a breath that was something like surprise and something like the feeling in his chest. Every strap was polished, every piece of armour gleamed. He let his eyes pass over each of their faces, and then looked out at the wider courtyard, where men and women of the fort were gathering curiously. Laurent wasn’t here, and he let that fact sink into his bones.
Lazar stepped forward and said, ‘Captain. It was an honour to serve with you.’
It was an honour to serve with you. Those words echoed in his mind.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The honour was mine.’
And then there was a burst of activity from the lower gate, and a rider came into the courtyard: it was Laurent.
He was not here in a last-minute change of heart. Damen only had to look at Laurent to know that he had intended to stay away until Damen was gone, and was not pleased to have been forced to return early.
He was dressed in riding leathers. The leathers were winched as tight as the rising gate, not a single strap out of place even after a long ride. He sat straight-backed. His horse, neck curved under a taut rein, was still blowing air through its nostrils from the ride. He tossed Damen a single cool look from across the courtyard before driving his horse on.
And then Damen saw why he was here.
He heard the activity on the battlements first, the shouts that went up along the lines, and then from horseback he saw the banner waving its signal. These were his own alerts, and he knew what was coming even as Laurent lifted his hand and gave a signal of his own, acceding to the request for entry.
The enormous machinery of the gates started to turn, cogs grinding and dark screeching wood with interlocking teeth brought to life with winches and straining human muscle.
Accompanying it was the cry, ‘Open the gates!’
Laurent didn’t dismount, but wheeled his horse at the base of the dais to face what was coming.
They swept into the courtyard in a surge of red. The banners were red, the livery was red, the pennants, the brightwork, the armour was gold and white and red. The blare of the horns was like the sounding of trumpets, and into Ravenel in full panoply came the emissaries of the Regency.
The gathered soldiers parted for them, and a space opened up between Laurent and his uncle’s men, so that they faced one another along a widening corridor of empty flagstones, with onlookers either side.
A hush fell. Damen’s own horse shifted, then was still. On the faces of Laurent’s men was the hostility that the Regency had always engendered, now magnified. On the faces of the inhabitants of the fort the reactions were more varied: surprise, careful neutrality, devouring curiosity.