Kings Rising

by C. S. Pacat

  ‘Laurent,’ said the Regent, softly, ‘you have caused me a great deal of trouble.’

  The slight flutter of the pulse in Laurent’s neck belied his steady exterior. Damen could feel the reverberation that he was covering, the control he exercised over his breathing.

  ‘Have I?’ said Laurent. ‘Oh, that’s right. You had to replace a bed boy. Don’t blame me too much. He would have been too old for you this year anyway.’

  The Regent considered Laurent, a slow perusal that took several moments; as he considered, he spoke.

  ‘These petulant remarks have never suited you. The mannerisms of a boy sit so unattractively on a man.’ His voice was mild, speculative, perhaps faintly disappointed. ‘You know, Nicaise really thought you would help him. He didn’t know your nature, that you’d abandon a boy to treason and death out of petty spite. Or was there some other reason you killed him?’

  ‘Your bought whore? I didn’t think anyone would miss him.’

  Damen had to force himself not to take a step back. He had forgotten the bloodless violence of these exchanges.

  ‘He’s been replaced,’ said the Regent.

  ‘I thought he would be. You cut his head off. It makes it a little difficult for him to suck your cock.’

  After a moment, the Regent spoke musingly to Damen. ‘I assume whatever tawdry pleasure you get from him in bed leads you to overlook his nature. After all, you are an Akielon. There must be satisfaction to be had in getting the Prince of Vere under you. He is unpleasant, but that would barely register when you are rutting.’

  Damen said, very steadily, ‘You’re alone. You can’t use weapons. You don’t have men. You may have taken us by surprise, but that will gain you nothing. Your words are meaningless.’

  ‘By surprise? You are refreshingly artless,’ said the Regent. ‘Laurent was expecting me. He is here to give himself up for the child.’

  ‘Laurent isn’t here to give himself up,’ said Damen, and in the second of silence that followed his words, he turned, and saw Laurent’s face.

  Laurent was white, his shoulders straight, his silence a kind of acceptance of a deal that had long since been made between himself and his uncle. Give yourself up, and all that is yours will be returned to you.

  There was something terrible, suddenly, about the Kingsmeet, the impassive, white-cloaked soldiers posted at intervals, the immense white stones. Damen said, ‘No.’

  ‘My nephew is predictable,’ the Regent said. ‘He has freed Jokaste, because he knows that I would never trade a tactical advantage for a whore. And he has come here to give himself up for the child. He doesn’t even care whose child it is. He just knows it’s in danger, and that you’ll never fight me while I have it. He’s found the way to ensure that in the end, you will win: give himself up, in exchange for your child’s life.’

  Laurent’s silence was that of a man exposed. He didn’t look at Damen. He just stood, breathing shallowly, his body rigid, as though he was bracing himself.

  The Regent said, ‘But that exchange doesn’t interest me, nephew.’

  In the pause that followed, Laurent’s expression changed. Damen barely had time to register the volte-face before Laurent said, in a tight voice, ‘It’s a trap. You can’t listen to him. We need to go.’

  The Regent spread his hands. ‘But I am here alone.’

  ‘Damen, get out,’ said Laurent.

  ‘No,’ said Damen. ‘He’s just one man.’

  ‘Damen,’ said Laurent.

  ‘No.’

  He made himself take in the Regent fully, his close-cropped beard, the dark hair, and the blue eyes that were his only point of physical commonality with Laurent.

  ‘I’m the one he’s come here to make a deal with,’ said Damen.

  The Kingsmeet, with its strict laws against violence, was the one place where two enemies could meet and strike a bargain. There was something fitting about facing the Regent here, in this ceremonial place made for adversaries.

  He said, ‘Tell me your terms for the child.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Regent, ‘No. The child is not on offer. I’m sorry, were you thinking of making a grand gesture? I prefer to keep him. No, I am here for my nephew. He is going to stand trial before the Council. Then he will die for his crimes. I don’t need to negotiate, or give up the child. Laurent is going to get down on his knees and beg me to take him. Aren’t you, Laurent?’

  Laurent said, ‘Damen, I told you to get out.’

  ‘Laurent will never kneel to you,’ said Damen. He pushed himself forward to stand between Laurent and the Regent.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ said the Regent.

  ‘Damen,’ said Laurent.

  ‘He wants you to leave,’ said the Regent. ‘Aren’t you curious why?’

  ‘Damen,’ said Laurent.

  ‘He has knelt for me.’

  The Regent said it in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, so that it didn’t penetrate at first. It was just a collection of words. Even when Damen turned, to see crimson on Laurent’s cheeks like a stain. And then the meaning of those words began forcing out all other thought.

  ‘I probably should have turned him away, but who can resist when a boy with a face like that asks you to stay with him? He was so lonely after his brother died. “Uncle, don’t leave me alone—”’

  Rage; it provided clarity and simplicity, burning away all thought. Laurent’s awful expression, the movement of the white-cloaked sentries at the first scrape of steel—all of that was unimportant, flashed impressions. Damen had drawn his sword and was going to drive it into the Regent’s unarmed body.

  There was a sentry in his way. Another. The ringing sound of his sword had triggered a cascade of action. White-cloaked sentries of the Kingsmeet were flooding the hall, shouting orders. Stop him! They were in his way. He would remove them. The crunch of bone, a scream of pain—these were the best fighters in Akielos, hand-picked. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but killing the Regent.

  A battering blow to his head momentarily blackened his vision. He staggered, then righted himself. Another. He was surrounded, held down by eight men struggling to contain him, others shouting for reinforcements. He half tore himself from their grip, and when he couldn’t free himself, he bodily dragged them forward, wielding sheer strength against them, like wading through quicksand, or through a full sea.

  He made it four steps before another blow brought him down. His knees hit the marble. His arm was wrenched behind him, and he felt the cold, hard iron before he understood what was happening, the chains on his wrists and legs hobbling him. His movement was totally restrained.

  Panting, on his knees, Damen began to come back to himself. His bloody, discarded sword lay on the stone five feet away, where it had been forced from his hand. The hall was full of white cloaks, not all of them standing. One of the soldiers had his hand clutched to his stomach, where blood blossomed red across the white livery. There were six others on the ground near him, three who weren’t getting up. The Regent was still standing, several feet away.

  In the panting silence of the hall, one of the kneeling sentries rose and began to speak. ‘You have drawn your sword in the Kingsmeet.’

  Damen’s eyes locked on the Regent’s. Nothing mattered but a promise. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘You have broken the peace of the hall.’

  Damen said, ‘The moment you laid your hands on him, you were dead.’

  ‘The laws of the Kingsmeet are sacred.’

  Damen said, ‘I will be the last thing that you see. You will go to the ground with my blade in your flesh.’

  ‘Your life is forfeit to the King,’ said the sentry.

  Damen heard the words. The laugh that came out of him was hollow and jagged. ‘The King?’ he said, with total scorn. ‘Which King?’

  Laurent was staring at him wi
th huge eyes. Unlike Damen, it had only taken one of the Kingsmeet soldiers to restrain Laurent, his arms forced behind his back, his breathing shallow.

  ‘In fact, there is only one King here,’ said the Regent.

  And slowly, the impact of what he had done began to make itself clear to Damen.

  He looked at the devastation of the Kingsmeet, the blood-streaked marble, and the gathered sentries in disarray, the peace of its sanctum shattered.

  ‘No,’ said Damen. ‘You heard what he did.’ Roughened, it came out of him. ‘You all heard him, are you going to let him do this?’

  The sentry who had risen ignored him, and approached the Regent. Damen struggled again, and felt the strain on his arms brought almost to breaking point by the men holding him.

  The sentry bowed his head to the Regent, said, ‘You are the King of Vere and not of Akielos, but the attack was against you, and a king’s judgement is sacred in the Kingsmeet. Pass your sentence.’

  ‘Kill him,’ said the Regent.

  He spoke with indifferent authority. Damen’s forehead was pushed down to the cold stone, and there was the scrape of metal as his sword was picked up from the marble. A white-cloaked soldier came forward holding it in the two-handed grip of the executioner.

  ‘No,’ said Laurent. He said it to his uncle, in a flat, emotionless voice Damen had never heard before, ‘Stop. It’s me you want.’ And Damen said, ‘Laurent,’ a final, terrible understanding resolving, as Laurent said, ‘It’s me you want, not him.’

  The Regent’s voice was mild. ‘I don’t want you, Laurent. You are a nuisance. A minor inconvenience that I will clear from my path without much thought.’

  ‘Laurent,’ said Damen, trying to stop what was happening from his restrained position on his knees.

  ‘I’ll come with you to Ios,’ said Laurent, in that same detached voice. ‘I’ll let you have your trial. Just let him—’ He didn’t look at Damen. ‘Let him live. Let him walk out of here whole and alive. Take me.’

  The soldier holding the sword halted, looking to the Regent for an order. The Regent’s eyes were on Laurent, regarding him with considering attention.

  ‘Beg,’ said the Regent.

  Laurent was held fast in the grip of a soldier, his arm twisted behind his back, the white cotton of his chiton in disarray. The soldier released him, pushing him forward into the silence. Laurent didn’t quite stumble, then began steadily to take one step, then another. Laurent is going to get down on his knees and beg. Like a man walking towards a cliff edge, Laurent came forward to stand before his uncle. Slowly, he went to his knees.

  ‘Please,’ said Laurent. ‘Please, uncle. I was wrong to defy you. I deserve punishment. Please.’

  There was a surreal horror to what was happening. No one was stopping it, this travesty of justice. The Regent’s eyes passed over Laurent like those of a father receiving an act of long-overdue filial duty.

  ‘Is this exchange acceptable to you, Exalted?’ said the sentry.

  ‘I believe it is,’ said the Regent, after a moment. ‘You see, Laurent. I am a reasonable man. When you are properly penitent, I am merciful.’

  ‘Yes, uncle. Thank you, uncle.’

  The sentry bowed. ‘The exchange of a life satisfies our laws. Your nephew will face trial in Ios. The other will be held until morning, then released. Let the will of the King be done.’

  The other sentries echoed the words, ‘Let the will of the King be done.’

  Damen said, ‘No.’ He was struggling again.

  Laurent didn’t look at Damen. He kept his eyes fixed on a point in front of him, their blue slightly glazed. Under the thin cotton of his chiton, he was breathing shallowly, his body held taut, an attempt at control.

  ‘Come, nephew,’ said the Regent.

  They went.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THEY KEPT DAMEN until dawn, and then brought him back to the camp, with his hands bound anew. He fought, intermittently, the whole way, through a kind of dark haze of exhaustion that wouldn’t leave him.

  When they reached the camp, they threw him down onto the ground so that he went to his knees with his hands bound behind him. Jord came forward with his sword drawn, but Nikandros held him back, eyes wide in fear and respect for the white cloaks of the Kingsmeet. Then Nikandros came forward. Damen was rising to his feet, and he felt Nikandros turning him and slicing the ropes from his arms with his knife.

  ‘The Prince?’

  ‘He’s with the Regent.’ He said it once, then for a moment could say nothing at all.

  He was a soldier. He knew the brutality of the battlefield, had seen the things that men could do to those weaker than themselves, yet had never thought—

  —Nicaise’s head drawn from a blood-stained hessian bag, Aimeric’s cold body sprawled out beside a letter, and—

  It was very bright. He was aware of Nikandros speaking to him.

  ‘I know you felt something for him. If you are going to be sick, do it quickly. We have to go. There will already be men coming to find us.’

  Through the haze he heard Jord’s voice. ‘You left him? You saved your own life and left him with his uncle?’

  Damen looked up, and saw that everyone had come out from the wagons to see. He was ringed by a small group of faces. Jord had come to stand in front of him. Nikandros stood behind him, and still had a hand on his shoulder, having steadied him to cut off the ropes. He saw Guion a few steps off, and Loyse. Paschal.

  Jord said, ‘You coward, you left him to—’

  The words were abruptly cut off as Nikandros took hold of Jord and slammed him back against the wagon.

  ‘You will not speak that way to our King.’

  ‘Let him be.’ The words were thick in Damen’s throat. ‘Let him be. He is loyal. You would have reacted the same way if Laurent had come back alone.’ He found he was between them, that he had intervened bodily. Nikandros was two paces away—Damen had pulled him off.

  Released, Jord was panting slightly. ‘He wouldn’t have come back alone. If you think that, you don’t know him.’

  He felt Nikandros’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him, though Nikandros was speaking to Jord. ‘Stop it, can’t you see he’s—’

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’ Jord’s voice, demanding.

  ‘He’ll be killed,’ said Damen. ‘There will be a trial. He’ll be branded a traitor. His name will be dragged through the mud. When it’s done, they’ll kill him.’

  It was the unadorned truth. It would happen here, publicly. In Ios, they displayed severed heads on rough wooden spikes along the traitor’s walk. Nikandros was speaking.

  ‘We can’t stay here, Damianos. We have to—’

  ‘No,’ said Damen.

  He had his hand to his forehead. His thoughts whirled, useless. He remembered Laurent saying, I can’t think.

  What would Laurent do? He knew what Laurent would do. Stupid, mad Laurent had sacrificed himself. He had used the last piece of leverage he had: his own life. But Damen’s life was valueless to the Regent.

  He felt the limits of his own nature, which too easily swung to anger, and the need—stymied by circumstance—to bring about the Regent’s death. All he wanted was to take up his sword and cut a path into Ios. His body felt thick and dull with a single thought that pushed at him, trying to get out. He pressed his eyes closed.

  ‘He thinks he’s alone,’ he said.

  He told himself, sickeningly, that it wouldn’t be quick. The trial would take time. The Regent would draw it out. It was what he liked, public humiliation coupled with private chastisement, his reality validated by all those around him. Laurent’s death, sanctioned by the Council, would restore the Regent’s personal order, the world set to rights.

  It wouldn’t be quick. There was time. There had to be time. If he could only think. He felt like a man s
tanding outside the high gates of a city with no way to get inside.

  ‘Damianos. Listen to me. If he is taken to the palace, then he is gone. You can’t fight your way in single-handed. Even if you made it past the walls, you’d never make it out again. Every soldier in Ios is loyal to Kastor or to the Regent.’

  Nikandros’s words penetrated, as hard and painful as only the truth could be.

  ‘You’re right, I can’t fight my way in.’

  From the beginning he had been a tool, a weapon to be used against Laurent. The Regent had used him to hurt, to unsettle, to shake Laurent’s control; and finally, to destroy him.

  ‘I know what I have to do,’ he said.

  * * *

  He arrived in the cool of morning, alone. Leaving his horse, he went the last of the way on foot, choosing the goat tracks first, then passing through avenues of apricot and almond, and the dappled shade of olive trees. Shortly after, the tracks ascended, and he began to climb a low limestone hill, the first of the rises that led him up, and up further to the white cliffs, and the city.

  Ios; the white city, built on high limestone cliffs that crumbled and broke off into the sea. The familiarity was so strong it was almost dizzying. On the horizon, the sea was a clear blue, only a few shades darker than the strident shade of the sky. He had missed the ocean. The foaming disorder of rocks, and the sudden sharp sense of how spray would feel against skin, more than anything, made him feel like home.

  He expected to be challenged at the outer gates by soldiers warned and wary, on the lookout for him. But perhaps they were on the lookout for Damianos, the arrogant young King at the head of his army, not a single man in an old worn cloak, a hood that came down over his face, and sleeves to hide his arms. No one stopped him.

  So he walked in, past the first threshold. He took the northern road, one man winding through the crowd. And when he turned the first corner, he saw the palace as everyone saw it: disorientingly, from the outside. There, small as specks, were the high open windows and long marble balconies that invited the sea air in during the evening to cool the baking stone. To the east was the long, columned hall and airy upper quarters. To the north, the King’s quarters, and the high-walled gardens, with their shallow steps and winding paths and the myrtle trees planted for his mother.