The Summer Palace (Captive Prince #3.5)(3)

They stopped at one of them. Laurent plucked a white flower from the low-hanging branches, and lifted his hand to tuck it into Damen’s hair, as if Damen were a youth from the village.

‘Are you courting me?’ said Damen.

He felt foolish with happiness. He knew courtship was new to Laurent, didn’t know why it felt so new to himself.

‘I haven’t done this before,’ said Laurent.

Damen took a flower of his own. His pulse sped up, his fingers felt clumsy as he tucked it behind Laurent’s ear. ‘You had suitors in Arles.’

‘That was side stepping.’

The view was wilder here, unlike in the capital, where on a clear day you could see Isthima. Here there was only the unbroken ocean.

‘My mother planted these gardens,’ said Damen. His heart was pounding. ‘Do you like them? They’re ours now.’ Saying the word “ours” still felt daring. He could feel it mirrored in Laurent, the shy awkwardness of what was so dearly desired.

‘I like them,’ said Laurent. ‘I think they’re beautiful.’

Laurent’s fingers found his again, a small intimacy that had him overbrimming.

‘I don’t think about her often. Only when I come here.’

‘You don’t take after her.’

‘Oh?’

‘Her statue in Ios is three feet tall.’

The corner of Damen’s mouth twitched. He knew the statue, on a plinth in the north hall. ‘There’s a statue of her here. Come and meet her.’

It was part of the nonsense they were sharing, a whim, to show Laurent. He tugged; they came to an arched open garden.

‘I take it back, you’re just like her.’ Laurent said it looking up. The statue here was bigger.

Damen was smiling; there was delight in seeing Laurent explore himself, a young man who was sweet, teasing, at times unexpectedly earnest. Having made the decision to let Damen in, Laurent had not gone back on it. When the walls went up, it was with Damen inside them.

But when Laurent came to stand in front of the statue of his mother, the mood changed to something more serious, as if prince and statue were communicating with each other.

Unlike in Patras, it wasn’t the custom in Akielos to paint statues. His mother Egeria looked out towards the sea with a marble face and marble eyes, even though she’d had dark hair and eyes like himself and his father. He saw her through Laurent’s eyes, the old-fashioned dress of marble, the curled hair, her high, classical brow and outraised arm.

Damen realised that he didn’t know how tall his mother really was. He had never asked about it, and had never been told.

Laurent made a formal Akielon gesture that matched his chiton and the gardens, but was different to his habitual Veretian manners. Damen felt his skin prickle with strangeness. It was part of Akielon courtship to seek permission from a parent. If things had been different, Damen might have knelt in the great hall in front of King Aleron, asking for the right to court his youngest son.

It was not that way between them. All their family was dead.

‘I’ll take care of your son,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ll protect his kingdom as if it were my own. I’ll give my life for his people.’

Above them, the sun was high and bright, and encouraged a retreat to the shade line. The boughs of the trees around them were heavy with scent. Laurent said, ‘I won’t let him down. I promise you.’

‘Laurent,’ said Damen, as Laurent turned back from the statue to face him.

‘In Arles, there’s a place… The statue doesn’t look that much like him, but my brother is buried there. I used to go there sometimes and talk to him... talk to myself. If I was having trouble in practice. Or to tell him how I hard I was trying to win the respect of the Prince’s Guard. The sort of things he used to like hearing about. If you like, I’ll take you there when we visit.’

‘I’d like that.’ Because the loss of family was so close between them, Damen pushed the words out. ‘You’ve never asked about it.’

After a long moment: ‘You said it was quick.’

He had said that. Laurent had said, Like gutting a pig? Laurent sounded different now, as if he had held that one small piece of information close, all this time.

‘It was.’

Laurent moved away, to a place where the shifting shade once again opened out into a view of the sea. After a moment, Damen came to stand beside him. He could see the patterns of light and shadow on Laurent’s face.

‘He didn’t let anyone else intervene. He thought it was fair, between princes. Single combat.’

‘Yes.’

‘He was tired. He’d been fighting for hours. But the man he fought wasn’t. It was Kastor on the front at Marlas. Damianos had stayed back to protect the King. He rode from behind the lines.’

‘Yes.’

‘He was honourable, and when he drew first blood, he gave Damianos time to recover. He wouldn’t let anyone else intervene. He thought—’

‘—he thought it was right. He stepped back and let me pick up my sword. I didn’t know what to do. It had been two years since anyone had disarmed me. When we fought again, he drove me back. I don’t know why he cut too far to the left. It was the only mistake he made. I took the chance it wasn’t a feint, and when he couldn’t draw himself back into position, I killed him. I killed him.’