*
Guion was in a room that looked a lot like the room where Aimeric had bled out, though Guion had little physical resemblance to his son. There was no sign of the polished curls or the obstinate, long-lashed gaze. Guion was a man in his late forties, with an indoor figure. When he saw Damen, Guion bowed in the same way that he would have bowed to the Regent: deeply, sincerely.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Guion.
‘And just like that, you’ve changed sides.’
Damen looked at him with distaste. Guion was not, as far as Damen could discern, under any kind of arrest. He had free rein of the fort and was still, in many respects, the fort’s figurehead, even if Laurent’s men now held power. Whatever bargain Guion had struck with Laurent, he had received a great deal in exchange for his cooperation.
‘I have a lot of sons,’ said Guion, ‘but the supply isn’t infinite.’
If Guion wanted to run, Damen supposed, his options were limited. The Regent wasn’t a forgiving man. Guion had little choice but to receive Akielons into his chambers with geniality. What was galling was the ease with which he seemed to have adjusted to this change—the luxury of his apartments, the lack of all consequence for anything that he had done.
He thought of the men who had died at Charcy, and then he thought of Laurent, surrendering his weight to the table in the tent, his hand clasped to his shoulder, his face white with the last real expression he had shown.
Damen had come here to learn what he could of the Regent’s plans, but there was only one question rising to his lips.
‘Who hurt Laurent at Charcy? Was it you?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
Damen had not spoken alone to Laurent since that night in the tent. ‘He doesn’t betray his friends.’
‘It’s not a secret. I captured him on his way to Charcy. He was brought to Fortaine, where he negotiated with me for his release. By the time he and I came to our arrangement, he had spent some time as a prisoner in the cells and had suffered a little accident to the shoulder. The true casualty was Govart. The Prince dealt him a tremendous blow to the head. He died a day later, cursing physicians and bed boys.’
‘You put Govart,’ said Damen, ‘in a cell with Laurent?’
‘Yes.’ Guion spread his hands. ‘Just as I helped to bring about the coup in your country. Now, of course, you need my testimony to win back your throne. That is politics. The Prince understands that. It is why he has allied with you.’ Guion smiled. ‘Your Majesty.’
Damen made himself speak very calmly, having come here to learn from Guion what he could not learn from his own men.
‘Did the Regent know who I was?’
‘If he did, having you sent to Vere was rather a miscalculation on his part, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Damen. He didn’t lift his eyes from Guion. He watched the blood rise and mottle Guion’s cheeks.
‘If the Regent knew who you were,’ said Guion, ‘then he hoped that when you arrived in Vere, the Prince would recognise you, and be provoked into a blunder. Either that, or he wanted the Prince to take you into his bed. The realisation of what he’d done then would kill him. How lucky for you that didn’t happen,’ Guion said.
He looked at Guion, sick, suddenly, of doublespeak, and double-dealing.
‘You swore a sacred duty to hold the throne in trust for your Prince. Instead you turned on him, for power, for personal gain. What has that won you?’
For the first time he saw something genuine flicker in Guion’s expression.
‘He killed my son,’ said Guion.
‘You killed your son,’ said Damen, ‘when you threw him into the path of the Regent.’