Fic: The White Dove - Part 3
2022-Jun-01, Wednesday 07:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
summeryewberryHeader in Part 1.
Back to Part 2
Chapter 3: Chasing Fairy Tales
The day of Laurent's official return to Arles saw him return to all the work he had had planned.
The guards at his door that morning turned out the be Rene and Jord. Clearly Enguerran's new rotation had begun.
"Who's guarding our Faux-guste?" Laurent asked as they made their way downstairs.
"Huet and Guymar," Jord told him. "With Rochert and Thibault to relieve them. I'm only a liability if it ever came to using force."
"You don't think you could hurt a man who looks like your former prince?"
"I could," Jord said, "but my reactions will always be compromised in that first moment. And a hesitation could be a liability."
The worst part was that Laurent couldn't disagree with him. Auguste was a hole in both their lives that would never be gone completely. If this impostor ever moved to attack, Laurent couldn't honestly say he wouldn't hesitate either. He'd never been at his best when he was being attacked by family before. But shutting down his heart had never worked either; he had tried that and failed too many times to count over the years.
"Spar with me," Laurent said.
The guards were at training this morning, being put through their formations in the yards by Enguerran, so the sparring arena lay empty. A few motes of dust hovered over the sand floor and the risers were deserted. Only the horse figures carved into the wooden supports would be watching them today. In the distance Laurent could hear his captain barking orders, and the march of hundreds of feet in the training yards, pounding the ground like a heartbeat.
When Laurent requested that Rene spar with him first, the man looked exactly as uncertain as most of those who had never seen Laurent fight. Jord only looked amused.
Partly, the exercise was to keep in condition, and partly because Laurent wanted to get a measure of the newest sergeant.
The weight of his sword in hand was familiar, and Laurent flexed his fingers around the grip, adjusting his stance and waiting for Rene to make the first move. Silence settled over the arena.
When Rene moved, the blows were just as controlled as Jord's were and perhaps even faster, but they lacked some of Jord's strength. Thankfully, he made up for it in creativity. Rene didn't fall for any of the feints that undid Laurent's usual opponents, and Laurent was well aware that he was fighting an active mind as well as a blade, though perhaps without the depth of education from which he himself had benefited.
Rene was good - well trained and solid, as expected from any in the Royal Guard - and Laurent let himself be driven backwards as he assessed the moves. Rene fought well, never leaving himself open, and to his credit he didn't hold back when ordered by his king. But he was no Damianos.
Just before he could be pushed back against the wall, Laurent switched from defending to attacking.
He saw Rene's eyes widen.
Over his shoulder, Jord grinned.
Forced into the defensive, Rene started retreating, and Laurent didn't give him any openings to turn that around. He struck hard and fast, light as a needle, making Rene counter each stroke before he could come up with a new strategy. Laurent had trained for years - driven by pain and rage - to beat the best swordsman in Akielos through sheer discipline. His hunger for vengeance had hewn Laurent into a better fighter than any of his men, and like iron and fire had forged him into a stronger weapon than any other. When he was one with his blade, Laurent was nigh unbeatable, and he proved it by keeping Rene from re-gaining the lead.
The ring of their swords sang through the air, dust swirled under their feet, and they fought without holding back. Sweat at the nape of Laurent's neck left his collar damp, and hair clung to his skin there. Cold air warmed in his chest, chasing away chill of the night. Rene was pink with exertion.
With one more push, Laurent forced Rene's sword aside and pulled his thrust just before it could sink into the soft flesh of his chest. His blade hovered a hair's breadth from Rene's laced doublet.
They were both breathing hard.
Rene lowered his sword. "I yield."
Laurent followed in turn. "Good fight."
A small grin flashed across Rene's face as he nodded. He was almost as red as his hair. "Good fight," he agreed.
Laurent inclined his head in dismissal and turned to Jord. "Care for a rematch?"
Jord grinned and drew his own sword.
If he thought Laurent's exhaustion would let him win, he was proven wrong. Again.
-
After a bath, Laurent turned to his other work. He needed to draft a letter to his second cousin Lady Ysabeau Bonlievre, congratulating her on the birth of her first daughter. As distantly related as they were, with everyone else dead, Lady Ysabeau and her little princess would be next in line for the throne of Vere. Fortunately, the Bonlievres had always been friends to Laurent and had always treated him as the legitimate ruler so there should be no trouble on that front for many years to come.
Far less engaging was the letter from the Merchant's Guild requesting clarification on cross-border trade with Patras. New agreements would need to be drawn up with King Torgeir of Patras now, taking newly opened roads through Akielos into consideration, without cutting out the trade route through Acquitart.
Laurent could feel a headache threatening as he drafted a very carefully worded response thanking the Merchant's Guild for their attention and assuring them that new agreements would be formalised when the Patran delegation arrived for talks and that the Merchant's Guild would be informed when that took place.
Reassured that no one was going to be immediately offended, Laurent sealed the message and stretched his neck. His eyes fell on his old book of fairy tales, and his wandering mind returned to the Maiden Blanche and her white dove. It was an old story with a few variations in different collections, but the tale always contained a task and a loved one returning from the dead.
Before he could hesitate, Laurent stood to approach the lone scholar who sat under the far window.
"Master Scholar?"
The man jumped. "Your Majesty! I wasn't aware you'd come in. How can I help you?"
"How would I find more information about an old story? Say, older records and where the story might have begun."
The scholar removed his glasses to rub his nose. "That depends on the story in question. Artesian legends, for example; we can only theorise about their origins."
"And what about fairy tales? The tale of the Maiden Blanche, for example?"
"Ah!" the scholar replaced his glasses even as his eyes lit up. "That one we have considerably more history about. If you'd like to follow me?"
Their footsteps echoed off the tiled floor of the library as the scholar led the way among the shelves. Veretian history rose on both sides in a section Laurent knew very well. Dark wooden shelves filled with books and scrolls were stacked high, and the light was dimmed here where shelves blocked both lanterns and natural light. But the scholar didn't hesitate in pulling a large tome from the shelves. Gold lettering flashed on the cover: Collecting Tales and Legends: A Journey Into the Veretian History of Oral Tradition.
"This was compiled by the chronicler Belon de Berton who also liked to collect the stories Veretian people shared with each other. He was one of the first to write them down almost two centuries ago." The scholar hesitated. "It is written in Old Veretian."
"Thank you, Master Scholar," Laurent said. "I am familiar with the language." After all, Old Veretian was closer to today's Veretian than it was to Artesian. Apart from some unusual vocabulary, Laurent could read Old Veretian well enough to understand most of what was written.
The scholar nodded. "It is my honour, Your Majesty. If you are interested in stories, it's important to remember that every story contains grains of truth. We only need to look closely to find them. Please come ask me if you would like further help."
"Of course."
The book was heavy leather and thick paper, and Laurent carried it back to his table with care. The pages had been decorated with illustrations, including old maps and diagrams, and while the ornate Old Veretian lettering was difficult to read at first, it came back to Laurent as he paged, artwork resolving into meaning. The binding was thick and sturdy so that the book was in an excellent state even two centuries after it had been put together.
A hunger to read all of it stirred Laurent's interest and he yearned to pore over the precious book, but he didn't have time for that. In his heart, the small boy he had been once mourned the loss of his opportunity to become a scholar, to spend his days reading texts like this, but he was a king now and no longer a child. He had a country to protect now.
The tale of the Maiden Blanche was one of the first addressed and Laurent held his breath as he read. The history was deep and convincing: tales of people returning after death stretched from Artes to recent times. Belon de Berton had found more than one person who swore they knew someone that had returned from the dead, a man his lover, a sister her brother, a parent their child.
Laurent's heart beat hard.
There was no proof, of course, and after this many years the people mentioned were long gone. Maybe those people had never existed in the first place.
Still, the need to know more tugged at Laurent's brain like a hook unwilling to let go. One thing he knew for certain: if there were more recent claims, they would be documented somewhere. People talked; people recorded what they remembered; stories spread. Gossip was one thing he had always been able to depend on in Vere.
His walk among the shelves took him to the travellers' journals, and with no further leads, he started reading.
-
The welcome feast that evening was as grand as any during Laurent's time as prince. Bejewelled courtiers thronged through the hall and filled the tables, while their pets were adorned with more paint than clothing. Gold glistened on skin and hair and everything gleamed in the light of hundreds of candles that lit the hall to near daylight.
Music drifted softly from a duo of pipe players in the corner and everywhere voices resounded off the vaulted ceiling. The many people and candles made the hall warm despite the fact that the doors were open to the dark gardens beyond, and during the feast courtiers and pets used those doors to evade their frigid king's eyes.
Laurent kept his smile to himself when he saw how restrained and uncertain many of the courtiers were behaving around him. There were still wandering hands at many of the tables and enough skin to remind him exactly where he was, but the veneer of discretion was new. He was only relieved that there was no one younger than seventeen in the hall. To everything else he could turn a blind eye, as so many kings had done before him.
"Your Majesty," Herode bowed before him. "It is a relief to see you returned, and I wish you a long, peaceful reign."
Laurent inclined his head with a genuine smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to have your support, Herode."
The old man straightened slowly, even painfully. "I'm aware that your council is still in flux while Guion is tried for his role in your uncle's treachery, and while I would not presume to request your forgiveness for the ways I have failed you, I would like to ask that you approach my son with an open mind."
"Your son?" Laurent put down his sweetbread roll.
Herode waved forward a man who had to be over forty by now. "This is my son, Gieffroy. He will be taking over management of our lands after Guion's trial is complete."
That startled Laurent. "You are retiring?"
Herode's smile was sad. "It is time. When a man fails his position to such a scale as I have, it is time to pass on his position to one more capable of serving their king."
"You have not failed me, Herode," Laurent told him. "You helped uncover the truth and put right what was done wrong. For that, I will always be grateful."
"Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty, but I think I have brought enough shame on my family. Gieffroy?"
His son stepped forward and bowed just like Herode had done. "It is an honour to serve you, Your Majesty," he said, his head bowed. "I hope my loyalty as a subject will strengthen your reign and that I can bring support whenever you might need it."
He was stocky and dark with a seriousness to him. Though Laurent had never met Gieffroy, he was willing to learn what kind of man stood before him. Herode had always been dependable and trustworthy and if he had instilled any of that in his son Gieffroy could be a strong ally.
"Thank you, Gieffroy," Laurent said. "I hope I can depend on you to help me build a strong Vere, with a strong alliance with Akielos in the years to come."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Gieffroy nodded solemnly.
"And I will miss you, Herode."
Herode bowed again, before both he and his son moved along.
The next courtier to approach the high table was Lord Sirion, a far less pleasant noble.
"Your Majesty," he simpered. "In honour of your return I've had my pet prepare a small dance, if you would permit a performance."
Laurent glanced at the young man behind him, draped in gold bracelets and anklets, and a sheer blue wrap the same colour as Laurent's royal blue. He wasn't sure if that was intended as flattery or mockery.
With a blank expression, Laurent waved a hand in ascent.
Sirion lit up with pleasure and nodded at his pet.
The young man held a set of decorative batons that clicked expertly in his hands as he walked to the centre of the room. Courtiers moved out of his way, murmuring with rising interest, and in the corner the pipe players quietened.
The rhythm of the batons took over as all the hall turned to watch and the pet began to dance. He was very good and his movements spoke of long hours practising his routine.
But even as the pet danced, Laurent's mind wandered to the feast he had forced Damen to attend here with him half a year ago, with Damen in chains, defiant even as he pretended obeisance. Which made him wonder what Damen would be doing now. Would he be sitting with Nikandros by the fire, planning the future? Would he be thinking of Laurent, so many leagues away?
He would not receive Laurent's messenger for a few days yet. He was still innocent of the the treachery that writhed among these walls, and a part of Laurent wanted to keep it that way. But the greater part of him knew that they had agreed to do this together, to face the challenges together. And in the privacy of his own heart Laurent could admit that he did not want to face the threats of Arles and Vere without Damen beside him.
The pet finished his dance and the batons stilled. Applause filled the room and the man grinned. Laurent gave Sirion a polite nod.
The parade of courtiers continued and the feast stretched long into the night, and while a part of Laurent catalogued which courtiers met his eyes and which ones flinched, another part of him was much further south, where the green fields of Delpha met the ruins and rebuilding of Marlas. He had been born here in Arles but since his brother's death a part of him would always be at Marlas. It was only in the past few months that the part of him that remained at Marlas didn't mind so much being called Damianos.
-
The next morning Jord reported that Auguste was asking for his brother.
"Brother?" Laurent pondered the word. "And how is our prisoner this morning?"
Jord shifted, which was an unusual show of discomfort from him. "He is mourning his father and the dead at Marlas as though they were newly dead."
Laurent nodded as he stepped out of his chambers. "Of course he is. He needs to maintain his fiction that he remembers nothing since the battle."
Jord's discomfort didn't lessen. If anything he looked like he was fighting a grimace. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it does appear to be genuine." It was good that he had excused himself from guarding the man if he was this affected by an impostor.
"Then he is either a very good actor or he has been trained to believe the fiction himself." Laurent led the way towards his new office.
"Are you going to speak to him?" Jord wanted to know.
Laurent knew how grim his smile was. "No."
His servants had decked the office in comfortable furniture, less ostentatious than many of the other rooms in the palace, but still beautiful. A blue rug lay across the floor, thick and decorated with white starburst shapes. The curtains were a similar blue, and in the centre of the room, a large table stood to serve as his desk. Rows of empty shelves lined the wall, waiting to be filled with whatever books Laurent chose, and behind his chair, a fireplace was already lit to fill the room with warmth.
Laurent nodded he acknowledgement at his manservant, Perrin, and dismissed the man.
Although his plans for the day included setting up further schools for child pets who had lost their places under the new laws - and in fact, Laurent did get through the meetings and plans - when it came time to address his papers, Laurent found himself helplessly drawn back to those historical traveller accounts.
As the sun made its way across the sky, Laurent dove back into the library shelves as if drawn like a moth to a flame, dangerous but unable to stay away. The old faith of Vere had dismissed the stories as fancies that only distracted from their faith, and had made any tales go quiet and ignored. Laurent spent the next few hours hunting through the writings of devotees until he found the rantings of a fanatic, railing against fanciful fairy tales.
Among the bluster and condemnation, Laurent found hints of recent events: the blight of seventy years ago, the building of the Emeraude Bridge at Marches, and mention of a single family who lost and regained their mother shortly before Laurent's father had been born.
Laurent's heart beat fast, a heavy pulse in his chest. The Family Charron had last lived at Chastillon, and if any of their descendants were still alive, they might even remember the story.
He sat back, mulling over his desire to mount a horse and ride out, to do his own research.
Outside, the sun was sinking and the horizon called to him.
Laurent closed the book in front of him, slowly and firmly. It was getting dark and he was chasing fairy tales.
He breathed in the dusty air of the library. As much as he would enjoy sneaking out of the palace, he was King now. As the devotees of the old faith had written, there were more important things than chasing fancies.
It was quiet when he put his book away again. The library was empty and Laurent stood alone in its centre. Outside, Jord would be standing guard within shouting distance, and beyond that courtiers would be coming and going. Far below, lay a man who looked every hair like Auguste, and far below that the real Auguste had been buried. Beyond the palace walls the country moved on, dangers stirring and ordinary people going about their lives. It was Laurent's duty to lead and protect them all.
The library was larger and emptier than ever and Laurent's heart ached. With one last look at the books, he turned and walked to the doors. His day had been productive but now it was over and it was time to move on.
He stepped out of the library and closed its doors behind him.
-
The next morning, it was Rene that came to his office.
"Lord Foucault has removed the Regent's colours from his hall."
Laurent nodded. With Lord Foucault as one of Vitalis' co-conspirators, a change in decoration could be a subtle but firm statement. On the other hand: "It may not be in allegiance with me; he may have decided to keep his true allegiances better hidden. Do you have a contact in his household?"
Rene nodded. "I'm working on transferring men everywhere. Only my most loyal soldiers, but it's taking time. I am still working on finding some connections. Not all of the men are educated and most cannot read."
Laurent looked him over with new interest and noted the ring on his finger. "You are married?"
Rene's smile widened into something softer. "Newly, yes. My wife lives in the city. Yvonne is her name."
Laurent put down his work. If his age was any indication, Rene would have joined the Regent's troops not too long ago, but he had also shown Laurent nothing but loyalty thus far. "Why did you join the old Regent's Guard, Sergeant?"
"Before I answer, may I ask your opinion on bastards, Your Majesty?"
The first thought that came to mind was Kastor, and quickly following on its heels the memory of Jokaste's son, an innocent baby and Damen's nephew. It wasn't easy to reconcile his thoughts on those two, but Damen had taken in the boy to legitimise him as much as he could under the law. And Damen was the best man Laurent had ever met.
Laurent spoke slowly. "I'm beginning to think maybe we fear them too much in Vere. It is not a child's fault for being born out of wedlock and it isn't right to deny a person a future over something they cannot control. Those are laws I intend to revisit in due time."
Rene nodded again, looking satisfied. "When I was seven, my father and I returned home from hunting early, and we overheard my mother being threatened by the man who sired me. She had to give him silver to keep him quiet or he would have told the whole village I was illegitimate. My father didn't care - I was his son, the boy he raised and took hunting - but we knew the rest of the village would not be so forgiving, so to escape the threats we left. I never forgot the power of information or how valuable it could be; that's why I decided to teach myself to read and write. I wasn't very good at it back then, but I already knew weapons from hunting, so when I left home I enrolled at the barracks.
"Of course, once I was in, I saw so much of what happened in this palace and the city. It didn't even take a year before I started to wonder if it was worth what I was doing, and I wasn't the only one." Rene indicated out the window as he spoke. "You have some good men in your guard still, Your Majesty. Not everyone among the guard supported your uncle although we learnt to keep our heads down. I certainly wasn't the only one horrified by what happened to the boy pet... Nicaise, wasn't it? Thibault and I, and some of the other men, gave ourselves six months to save money before we resolved to find a way of leaving."
"What would you have done instead?"
Rene shrugged. "Become a scrivener maybe. There's always work for someone who can read and write."
"And yet, you stayed."
Rene inclined his head, acknowledging the truth. "Now I serve a new king. I don't doubt what I am doing anymore, and I know which men feel the same. If you'll let me, I will prove it to you."
Laurent wasn't someone who trusted easily but he also knew intelligence when he saw it. "You have initiative and you know the value of information. If you prove yourself I may have another role for you." If he could set up a network of information across his kingdom to keep abreast of what was happening, he would need a man to run it, a Master of Intelligencers. But that was for a day in the future. "Do we have any more information on the man who looks like Auguste?"
Back to work, Rene straightened. "No one came or went from that garden that night, and everyone who saw him in the morning recognises his face as that of Prince Auguste. If anyone saw him earlier, they have not told anyone. It's as though he fell from the sky."
"Which is impossible," Laurent said.
"True."
Laurent thought about that for a moment. "If you wanted to place a person in the palace gardens while avoiding the guards, how would you do it?"
"In that garden? I would sneak them in a day earlier, maybe two, and keep them in a tower room. On the night, all you would have to do would be to open the window and let him climb down."
"Find out who was in and out of the palace in the days before we arrived back at Arles."
Rene nodded and turned from the room.
Even though he was gone again, Laurent's mind strayed inevitably to the things he had read in the library, like an itch or a pebble in his shoe that dragged his thoughts back whenever he tried to focus on anything else.
If the Charron family was still living at Chastillon today, would they still maintain one of them had mysteriously returned from the dead or would they admit to the lie?
The desire to creep out his window and saddle a horse was almost irresistible, and even as he knew it was insanity, Laurent's plans unfolded in his mind almost against his will.
That night he dreamed of Damen and of running across rooftops at Nesson-Eloy with nothing but open sky above them.
-
Once again, Auguste sent a request to speak with Laurent in the morning.
Just for a moment, Laurent considered executing Auguste, if only to see what the man would reveal in those last few moments. But that was a bell that could not be un-rung. He would only have the chance to execute a prisoner once, and if torture and execution didn't bring him answers, Laurent wouldn't have another.
At least Damen should be receiving his message today and would be on his way.
Laurent could be patient.
There were other ways to get answers.
He rode out of Arles with Jord and a small guard troop. The day was fine, with a clear, blue sky, although the wind carried a promise of colder days to come. Beyond the city lay the farms, dotted far and wide with sheep and cows. A few late farmers were harvesting the last of their crops, and wagons loaded high with hay passed Laurent's party on the roads.
Chastillon was just as he remembered it. The servants of the keep lined up to greet Laurent and his men. Guards were sent out to ask questions and the servants were questioned one by one to ask them about the surrounding families.
It was easier than Laurent had expected.
Many people knew the Charron family, although all that remained of them now were an old lady and her daughter.
Laurent tried not to expect anything and ignored the pounding in his chest. If nothing came from this visit, he resolved to set the matter aside permanently. He would not be a king known for chasing ghosts.
His men were left behind, but he took Jord with him to the house at the end of a lane. It was small and worn, with faded curtains fluttering in the windows and weather-worn shutters folded back against the walls. But the stoop was swept and there were no cracks in the walls. Plain but tidy.
A woman opened the door. "Yes?" Her hair was grey though she couldn't have been much older than Laurent's parents would be today, and her eyes were crinkled with kindness.
Laurent relaxed. "Excuse the interruption. This may be a strange question, but I'm looking for information: any stories about where the Maiden Blanche fairy tale might have come from."
She regarded him slowly, her eyes moving over his fine clothing. "You don't look like scholars." Like most common people of Vere, she likely had never seen the aristocracy of her country, and had no idea who stood in front of her.
Laurent allowed a smile. "I'm not. But I would like to hear any stories you're willing to share."
The woman eyed Jord with his sword. "You're not fanatics, are you?"
"Not at all," Laurent answered. "I'm only here to listen. And my man can wait outside if you'd prefer."
She looked at him again, before something settled behind her eyes. "No. No, that won't be necessary." She opened her door and stepped aside in invitation. "And it's not a fairy tale."
The inside was just as plain and tidy as the outside. The main room was a kitchen and living area, with a single door leading off elsewhere. By the fire sat an old woman with hair as white as snow.
"Call me Dauphine," the younger woman said, shutting the door behind them. "And this is my mother, Marguerite."
The old lady didn't move, only continued to stare into the grate. Warmth filled the small house, the fire crackling quietly.
"My mother hasn't been able to tell the story in some years, but there was a time she welcomed anyone wanting to hear it," Dauphine continued. "Especially if they had any experience of their own."
Laurent kept his expression blank in the face of her scrutiny. Despite how plain the house was, a wreath of midwinter branches hung behind the door, and a crude painting of a stag sat on a shelf. The signs of the old faith were scattered but clear.
"And what did your mother tell the people that she invited inside?"
Dauphine stepped up beside her mother but Marguerite didn't stir, not even at the hand resting on her shoulder. "My mother died when I was three years old. We buried her down the road; it was my first memory as a child. I grew up knowing my father as a sad, quiet man, who never stopped mourning my mother. And when I was ten, she came back."
The fire popped but no one else spoke. Despite the fire, Laurent suppressed a chill.
"When she walked in that door, it was like the life had returned to my father. I never questioned it; I was a child, as far as I knew, that was normal enough. Besides, I didn't remember her from before."
"But your father was certain it was her?" Laurent pressed.
"Oh yes," Dauphine said. "He believed it with all his heart and I believed him. Not many other people did. You might not either. But he always told me that with enough love, anything was possible if both people wanted it enough. It's a nice thought, isn't it? That fate can take mercy on our suffering and bring back someone we love so much."
Laurent wasn't sure he was convinced even if Dauphine was. "What about your faith?" Laurent glanced at the painting. "Didn't it ever make you doubt?"
"No." Her answer was firm. "My faith is why I believe there is more to this world than scholars and explorers can tell us." She moved to place the kettle over the fire as she spoke. "Learned people see and know a lot, no doubt. They learn by searching and verifying, but there are some things that are impossible to prove. Questions like how we should live our lives? That's not something you can measure or prove. Sometimes you just have to believe in something. And that? That is no contradiction with any faith on Earth."
She straightened and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Now, can I offer you gentlemen some tea?"
They didn't stay for tea, though Laurent assured Dauphine it smelt wonderful. She gave him a look that was far too knowing when he said he needed to leave again.
"Your Majesty," Jord began as they walked from the little house, "If it's true..."
"It's not," Laurent interrupted him. "Maybe they believe it's true, but that doesn't make them right."
Jord nodded, but didn't look convinced.
-
That night Laurent dreamed of a white dove soaring through blinding white sky, until it finally came to rest in the branches of an olive tree, like one of those he'd seen outside Ios.
He was sweating when he woke, and stared into the darkness of his room.
Everything was still. His fire had grown dark, with nothing but glowing embers left now, and the palace lay silent around him.
The stories were getting to him.
Laurent lay on his back and breathed, collecting the shreds of his awareness as the dream faded.
He needed to stop and focus on what he knew for certain: there were Lords in his country trying to destabilise his rule by undermining his confidence. That, he had evidence for.
No more stories, he decided. No more fairy tales. His hopeless heart knew how to live with bitter reality and it would do so again.
No more chasing childish dreams.
On to Part 4.
Back to Part 2
Chapter 3: Chasing Fairy Tales
The day of Laurent's official return to Arles saw him return to all the work he had had planned.
The guards at his door that morning turned out the be Rene and Jord. Clearly Enguerran's new rotation had begun.
"Who's guarding our Faux-guste?" Laurent asked as they made their way downstairs.
"Huet and Guymar," Jord told him. "With Rochert and Thibault to relieve them. I'm only a liability if it ever came to using force."
"You don't think you could hurt a man who looks like your former prince?"
"I could," Jord said, "but my reactions will always be compromised in that first moment. And a hesitation could be a liability."
The worst part was that Laurent couldn't disagree with him. Auguste was a hole in both their lives that would never be gone completely. If this impostor ever moved to attack, Laurent couldn't honestly say he wouldn't hesitate either. He'd never been at his best when he was being attacked by family before. But shutting down his heart had never worked either; he had tried that and failed too many times to count over the years.
"Spar with me," Laurent said.
The guards were at training this morning, being put through their formations in the yards by Enguerran, so the sparring arena lay empty. A few motes of dust hovered over the sand floor and the risers were deserted. Only the horse figures carved into the wooden supports would be watching them today. In the distance Laurent could hear his captain barking orders, and the march of hundreds of feet in the training yards, pounding the ground like a heartbeat.
When Laurent requested that Rene spar with him first, the man looked exactly as uncertain as most of those who had never seen Laurent fight. Jord only looked amused.
Partly, the exercise was to keep in condition, and partly because Laurent wanted to get a measure of the newest sergeant.
The weight of his sword in hand was familiar, and Laurent flexed his fingers around the grip, adjusting his stance and waiting for Rene to make the first move. Silence settled over the arena.
When Rene moved, the blows were just as controlled as Jord's were and perhaps even faster, but they lacked some of Jord's strength. Thankfully, he made up for it in creativity. Rene didn't fall for any of the feints that undid Laurent's usual opponents, and Laurent was well aware that he was fighting an active mind as well as a blade, though perhaps without the depth of education from which he himself had benefited.
Rene was good - well trained and solid, as expected from any in the Royal Guard - and Laurent let himself be driven backwards as he assessed the moves. Rene fought well, never leaving himself open, and to his credit he didn't hold back when ordered by his king. But he was no Damianos.
Just before he could be pushed back against the wall, Laurent switched from defending to attacking.
He saw Rene's eyes widen.
Over his shoulder, Jord grinned.
Forced into the defensive, Rene started retreating, and Laurent didn't give him any openings to turn that around. He struck hard and fast, light as a needle, making Rene counter each stroke before he could come up with a new strategy. Laurent had trained for years - driven by pain and rage - to beat the best swordsman in Akielos through sheer discipline. His hunger for vengeance had hewn Laurent into a better fighter than any of his men, and like iron and fire had forged him into a stronger weapon than any other. When he was one with his blade, Laurent was nigh unbeatable, and he proved it by keeping Rene from re-gaining the lead.
The ring of their swords sang through the air, dust swirled under their feet, and they fought without holding back. Sweat at the nape of Laurent's neck left his collar damp, and hair clung to his skin there. Cold air warmed in his chest, chasing away chill of the night. Rene was pink with exertion.
With one more push, Laurent forced Rene's sword aside and pulled his thrust just before it could sink into the soft flesh of his chest. His blade hovered a hair's breadth from Rene's laced doublet.
They were both breathing hard.
Rene lowered his sword. "I yield."
Laurent followed in turn. "Good fight."
A small grin flashed across Rene's face as he nodded. He was almost as red as his hair. "Good fight," he agreed.
Laurent inclined his head in dismissal and turned to Jord. "Care for a rematch?"
Jord grinned and drew his own sword.
If he thought Laurent's exhaustion would let him win, he was proven wrong. Again.
-
After a bath, Laurent turned to his other work. He needed to draft a letter to his second cousin Lady Ysabeau Bonlievre, congratulating her on the birth of her first daughter. As distantly related as they were, with everyone else dead, Lady Ysabeau and her little princess would be next in line for the throne of Vere. Fortunately, the Bonlievres had always been friends to Laurent and had always treated him as the legitimate ruler so there should be no trouble on that front for many years to come.
Far less engaging was the letter from the Merchant's Guild requesting clarification on cross-border trade with Patras. New agreements would need to be drawn up with King Torgeir of Patras now, taking newly opened roads through Akielos into consideration, without cutting out the trade route through Acquitart.
Laurent could feel a headache threatening as he drafted a very carefully worded response thanking the Merchant's Guild for their attention and assuring them that new agreements would be formalised when the Patran delegation arrived for talks and that the Merchant's Guild would be informed when that took place.
Reassured that no one was going to be immediately offended, Laurent sealed the message and stretched his neck. His eyes fell on his old book of fairy tales, and his wandering mind returned to the Maiden Blanche and her white dove. It was an old story with a few variations in different collections, but the tale always contained a task and a loved one returning from the dead.
Before he could hesitate, Laurent stood to approach the lone scholar who sat under the far window.
"Master Scholar?"
The man jumped. "Your Majesty! I wasn't aware you'd come in. How can I help you?"
"How would I find more information about an old story? Say, older records and where the story might have begun."
The scholar removed his glasses to rub his nose. "That depends on the story in question. Artesian legends, for example; we can only theorise about their origins."
"And what about fairy tales? The tale of the Maiden Blanche, for example?"
"Ah!" the scholar replaced his glasses even as his eyes lit up. "That one we have considerably more history about. If you'd like to follow me?"
Their footsteps echoed off the tiled floor of the library as the scholar led the way among the shelves. Veretian history rose on both sides in a section Laurent knew very well. Dark wooden shelves filled with books and scrolls were stacked high, and the light was dimmed here where shelves blocked both lanterns and natural light. But the scholar didn't hesitate in pulling a large tome from the shelves. Gold lettering flashed on the cover: Collecting Tales and Legends: A Journey Into the Veretian History of Oral Tradition.
"This was compiled by the chronicler Belon de Berton who also liked to collect the stories Veretian people shared with each other. He was one of the first to write them down almost two centuries ago." The scholar hesitated. "It is written in Old Veretian."
"Thank you, Master Scholar," Laurent said. "I am familiar with the language." After all, Old Veretian was closer to today's Veretian than it was to Artesian. Apart from some unusual vocabulary, Laurent could read Old Veretian well enough to understand most of what was written.
The scholar nodded. "It is my honour, Your Majesty. If you are interested in stories, it's important to remember that every story contains grains of truth. We only need to look closely to find them. Please come ask me if you would like further help."
"Of course."
The book was heavy leather and thick paper, and Laurent carried it back to his table with care. The pages had been decorated with illustrations, including old maps and diagrams, and while the ornate Old Veretian lettering was difficult to read at first, it came back to Laurent as he paged, artwork resolving into meaning. The binding was thick and sturdy so that the book was in an excellent state even two centuries after it had been put together.
A hunger to read all of it stirred Laurent's interest and he yearned to pore over the precious book, but he didn't have time for that. In his heart, the small boy he had been once mourned the loss of his opportunity to become a scholar, to spend his days reading texts like this, but he was a king now and no longer a child. He had a country to protect now.
The tale of the Maiden Blanche was one of the first addressed and Laurent held his breath as he read. The history was deep and convincing: tales of people returning after death stretched from Artes to recent times. Belon de Berton had found more than one person who swore they knew someone that had returned from the dead, a man his lover, a sister her brother, a parent their child.
Laurent's heart beat hard.
There was no proof, of course, and after this many years the people mentioned were long gone. Maybe those people had never existed in the first place.
Still, the need to know more tugged at Laurent's brain like a hook unwilling to let go. One thing he knew for certain: if there were more recent claims, they would be documented somewhere. People talked; people recorded what they remembered; stories spread. Gossip was one thing he had always been able to depend on in Vere.
His walk among the shelves took him to the travellers' journals, and with no further leads, he started reading.
-
The welcome feast that evening was as grand as any during Laurent's time as prince. Bejewelled courtiers thronged through the hall and filled the tables, while their pets were adorned with more paint than clothing. Gold glistened on skin and hair and everything gleamed in the light of hundreds of candles that lit the hall to near daylight.
Music drifted softly from a duo of pipe players in the corner and everywhere voices resounded off the vaulted ceiling. The many people and candles made the hall warm despite the fact that the doors were open to the dark gardens beyond, and during the feast courtiers and pets used those doors to evade their frigid king's eyes.
Laurent kept his smile to himself when he saw how restrained and uncertain many of the courtiers were behaving around him. There were still wandering hands at many of the tables and enough skin to remind him exactly where he was, but the veneer of discretion was new. He was only relieved that there was no one younger than seventeen in the hall. To everything else he could turn a blind eye, as so many kings had done before him.
"Your Majesty," Herode bowed before him. "It is a relief to see you returned, and I wish you a long, peaceful reign."
Laurent inclined his head with a genuine smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to have your support, Herode."
The old man straightened slowly, even painfully. "I'm aware that your council is still in flux while Guion is tried for his role in your uncle's treachery, and while I would not presume to request your forgiveness for the ways I have failed you, I would like to ask that you approach my son with an open mind."
"Your son?" Laurent put down his sweetbread roll.
Herode waved forward a man who had to be over forty by now. "This is my son, Gieffroy. He will be taking over management of our lands after Guion's trial is complete."
That startled Laurent. "You are retiring?"
Herode's smile was sad. "It is time. When a man fails his position to such a scale as I have, it is time to pass on his position to one more capable of serving their king."
"You have not failed me, Herode," Laurent told him. "You helped uncover the truth and put right what was done wrong. For that, I will always be grateful."
"Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty, but I think I have brought enough shame on my family. Gieffroy?"
His son stepped forward and bowed just like Herode had done. "It is an honour to serve you, Your Majesty," he said, his head bowed. "I hope my loyalty as a subject will strengthen your reign and that I can bring support whenever you might need it."
He was stocky and dark with a seriousness to him. Though Laurent had never met Gieffroy, he was willing to learn what kind of man stood before him. Herode had always been dependable and trustworthy and if he had instilled any of that in his son Gieffroy could be a strong ally.
"Thank you, Gieffroy," Laurent said. "I hope I can depend on you to help me build a strong Vere, with a strong alliance with Akielos in the years to come."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Gieffroy nodded solemnly.
"And I will miss you, Herode."
Herode bowed again, before both he and his son moved along.
The next courtier to approach the high table was Lord Sirion, a far less pleasant noble.
"Your Majesty," he simpered. "In honour of your return I've had my pet prepare a small dance, if you would permit a performance."
Laurent glanced at the young man behind him, draped in gold bracelets and anklets, and a sheer blue wrap the same colour as Laurent's royal blue. He wasn't sure if that was intended as flattery or mockery.
With a blank expression, Laurent waved a hand in ascent.
Sirion lit up with pleasure and nodded at his pet.
The young man held a set of decorative batons that clicked expertly in his hands as he walked to the centre of the room. Courtiers moved out of his way, murmuring with rising interest, and in the corner the pipe players quietened.
The rhythm of the batons took over as all the hall turned to watch and the pet began to dance. He was very good and his movements spoke of long hours practising his routine.
But even as the pet danced, Laurent's mind wandered to the feast he had forced Damen to attend here with him half a year ago, with Damen in chains, defiant even as he pretended obeisance. Which made him wonder what Damen would be doing now. Would he be sitting with Nikandros by the fire, planning the future? Would he be thinking of Laurent, so many leagues away?
He would not receive Laurent's messenger for a few days yet. He was still innocent of the the treachery that writhed among these walls, and a part of Laurent wanted to keep it that way. But the greater part of him knew that they had agreed to do this together, to face the challenges together. And in the privacy of his own heart Laurent could admit that he did not want to face the threats of Arles and Vere without Damen beside him.
The pet finished his dance and the batons stilled. Applause filled the room and the man grinned. Laurent gave Sirion a polite nod.
The parade of courtiers continued and the feast stretched long into the night, and while a part of Laurent catalogued which courtiers met his eyes and which ones flinched, another part of him was much further south, where the green fields of Delpha met the ruins and rebuilding of Marlas. He had been born here in Arles but since his brother's death a part of him would always be at Marlas. It was only in the past few months that the part of him that remained at Marlas didn't mind so much being called Damianos.
-
The next morning Jord reported that Auguste was asking for his brother.
"Brother?" Laurent pondered the word. "And how is our prisoner this morning?"
Jord shifted, which was an unusual show of discomfort from him. "He is mourning his father and the dead at Marlas as though they were newly dead."
Laurent nodded as he stepped out of his chambers. "Of course he is. He needs to maintain his fiction that he remembers nothing since the battle."
Jord's discomfort didn't lessen. If anything he looked like he was fighting a grimace. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it does appear to be genuine." It was good that he had excused himself from guarding the man if he was this affected by an impostor.
"Then he is either a very good actor or he has been trained to believe the fiction himself." Laurent led the way towards his new office.
"Are you going to speak to him?" Jord wanted to know.
Laurent knew how grim his smile was. "No."
His servants had decked the office in comfortable furniture, less ostentatious than many of the other rooms in the palace, but still beautiful. A blue rug lay across the floor, thick and decorated with white starburst shapes. The curtains were a similar blue, and in the centre of the room, a large table stood to serve as his desk. Rows of empty shelves lined the wall, waiting to be filled with whatever books Laurent chose, and behind his chair, a fireplace was already lit to fill the room with warmth.
Laurent nodded he acknowledgement at his manservant, Perrin, and dismissed the man.
Although his plans for the day included setting up further schools for child pets who had lost their places under the new laws - and in fact, Laurent did get through the meetings and plans - when it came time to address his papers, Laurent found himself helplessly drawn back to those historical traveller accounts.
As the sun made its way across the sky, Laurent dove back into the library shelves as if drawn like a moth to a flame, dangerous but unable to stay away. The old faith of Vere had dismissed the stories as fancies that only distracted from their faith, and had made any tales go quiet and ignored. Laurent spent the next few hours hunting through the writings of devotees until he found the rantings of a fanatic, railing against fanciful fairy tales.
Among the bluster and condemnation, Laurent found hints of recent events: the blight of seventy years ago, the building of the Emeraude Bridge at Marches, and mention of a single family who lost and regained their mother shortly before Laurent's father had been born.
Laurent's heart beat fast, a heavy pulse in his chest. The Family Charron had last lived at Chastillon, and if any of their descendants were still alive, they might even remember the story.
He sat back, mulling over his desire to mount a horse and ride out, to do his own research.
Outside, the sun was sinking and the horizon called to him.
Laurent closed the book in front of him, slowly and firmly. It was getting dark and he was chasing fairy tales.
He breathed in the dusty air of the library. As much as he would enjoy sneaking out of the palace, he was King now. As the devotees of the old faith had written, there were more important things than chasing fancies.
It was quiet when he put his book away again. The library was empty and Laurent stood alone in its centre. Outside, Jord would be standing guard within shouting distance, and beyond that courtiers would be coming and going. Far below, lay a man who looked every hair like Auguste, and far below that the real Auguste had been buried. Beyond the palace walls the country moved on, dangers stirring and ordinary people going about their lives. It was Laurent's duty to lead and protect them all.
The library was larger and emptier than ever and Laurent's heart ached. With one last look at the books, he turned and walked to the doors. His day had been productive but now it was over and it was time to move on.
He stepped out of the library and closed its doors behind him.
-
The next morning, it was Rene that came to his office.
"Lord Foucault has removed the Regent's colours from his hall."
Laurent nodded. With Lord Foucault as one of Vitalis' co-conspirators, a change in decoration could be a subtle but firm statement. On the other hand: "It may not be in allegiance with me; he may have decided to keep his true allegiances better hidden. Do you have a contact in his household?"
Rene nodded. "I'm working on transferring men everywhere. Only my most loyal soldiers, but it's taking time. I am still working on finding some connections. Not all of the men are educated and most cannot read."
Laurent looked him over with new interest and noted the ring on his finger. "You are married?"
Rene's smile widened into something softer. "Newly, yes. My wife lives in the city. Yvonne is her name."
Laurent put down his work. If his age was any indication, Rene would have joined the Regent's troops not too long ago, but he had also shown Laurent nothing but loyalty thus far. "Why did you join the old Regent's Guard, Sergeant?"
"Before I answer, may I ask your opinion on bastards, Your Majesty?"
The first thought that came to mind was Kastor, and quickly following on its heels the memory of Jokaste's son, an innocent baby and Damen's nephew. It wasn't easy to reconcile his thoughts on those two, but Damen had taken in the boy to legitimise him as much as he could under the law. And Damen was the best man Laurent had ever met.
Laurent spoke slowly. "I'm beginning to think maybe we fear them too much in Vere. It is not a child's fault for being born out of wedlock and it isn't right to deny a person a future over something they cannot control. Those are laws I intend to revisit in due time."
Rene nodded again, looking satisfied. "When I was seven, my father and I returned home from hunting early, and we overheard my mother being threatened by the man who sired me. She had to give him silver to keep him quiet or he would have told the whole village I was illegitimate. My father didn't care - I was his son, the boy he raised and took hunting - but we knew the rest of the village would not be so forgiving, so to escape the threats we left. I never forgot the power of information or how valuable it could be; that's why I decided to teach myself to read and write. I wasn't very good at it back then, but I already knew weapons from hunting, so when I left home I enrolled at the barracks.
"Of course, once I was in, I saw so much of what happened in this palace and the city. It didn't even take a year before I started to wonder if it was worth what I was doing, and I wasn't the only one." Rene indicated out the window as he spoke. "You have some good men in your guard still, Your Majesty. Not everyone among the guard supported your uncle although we learnt to keep our heads down. I certainly wasn't the only one horrified by what happened to the boy pet... Nicaise, wasn't it? Thibault and I, and some of the other men, gave ourselves six months to save money before we resolved to find a way of leaving."
"What would you have done instead?"
Rene shrugged. "Become a scrivener maybe. There's always work for someone who can read and write."
"And yet, you stayed."
Rene inclined his head, acknowledging the truth. "Now I serve a new king. I don't doubt what I am doing anymore, and I know which men feel the same. If you'll let me, I will prove it to you."
Laurent wasn't someone who trusted easily but he also knew intelligence when he saw it. "You have initiative and you know the value of information. If you prove yourself I may have another role for you." If he could set up a network of information across his kingdom to keep abreast of what was happening, he would need a man to run it, a Master of Intelligencers. But that was for a day in the future. "Do we have any more information on the man who looks like Auguste?"
Back to work, Rene straightened. "No one came or went from that garden that night, and everyone who saw him in the morning recognises his face as that of Prince Auguste. If anyone saw him earlier, they have not told anyone. It's as though he fell from the sky."
"Which is impossible," Laurent said.
"True."
Laurent thought about that for a moment. "If you wanted to place a person in the palace gardens while avoiding the guards, how would you do it?"
"In that garden? I would sneak them in a day earlier, maybe two, and keep them in a tower room. On the night, all you would have to do would be to open the window and let him climb down."
"Find out who was in and out of the palace in the days before we arrived back at Arles."
Rene nodded and turned from the room.
Even though he was gone again, Laurent's mind strayed inevitably to the things he had read in the library, like an itch or a pebble in his shoe that dragged his thoughts back whenever he tried to focus on anything else.
If the Charron family was still living at Chastillon today, would they still maintain one of them had mysteriously returned from the dead or would they admit to the lie?
The desire to creep out his window and saddle a horse was almost irresistible, and even as he knew it was insanity, Laurent's plans unfolded in his mind almost against his will.
That night he dreamed of Damen and of running across rooftops at Nesson-Eloy with nothing but open sky above them.
-
Once again, Auguste sent a request to speak with Laurent in the morning.
Just for a moment, Laurent considered executing Auguste, if only to see what the man would reveal in those last few moments. But that was a bell that could not be un-rung. He would only have the chance to execute a prisoner once, and if torture and execution didn't bring him answers, Laurent wouldn't have another.
At least Damen should be receiving his message today and would be on his way.
Laurent could be patient.
There were other ways to get answers.
He rode out of Arles with Jord and a small guard troop. The day was fine, with a clear, blue sky, although the wind carried a promise of colder days to come. Beyond the city lay the farms, dotted far and wide with sheep and cows. A few late farmers were harvesting the last of their crops, and wagons loaded high with hay passed Laurent's party on the roads.
Chastillon was just as he remembered it. The servants of the keep lined up to greet Laurent and his men. Guards were sent out to ask questions and the servants were questioned one by one to ask them about the surrounding families.
It was easier than Laurent had expected.
Many people knew the Charron family, although all that remained of them now were an old lady and her daughter.
Laurent tried not to expect anything and ignored the pounding in his chest. If nothing came from this visit, he resolved to set the matter aside permanently. He would not be a king known for chasing ghosts.
His men were left behind, but he took Jord with him to the house at the end of a lane. It was small and worn, with faded curtains fluttering in the windows and weather-worn shutters folded back against the walls. But the stoop was swept and there were no cracks in the walls. Plain but tidy.
A woman opened the door. "Yes?" Her hair was grey though she couldn't have been much older than Laurent's parents would be today, and her eyes were crinkled with kindness.
Laurent relaxed. "Excuse the interruption. This may be a strange question, but I'm looking for information: any stories about where the Maiden Blanche fairy tale might have come from."
She regarded him slowly, her eyes moving over his fine clothing. "You don't look like scholars." Like most common people of Vere, she likely had never seen the aristocracy of her country, and had no idea who stood in front of her.
Laurent allowed a smile. "I'm not. But I would like to hear any stories you're willing to share."
The woman eyed Jord with his sword. "You're not fanatics, are you?"
"Not at all," Laurent answered. "I'm only here to listen. And my man can wait outside if you'd prefer."
She looked at him again, before something settled behind her eyes. "No. No, that won't be necessary." She opened her door and stepped aside in invitation. "And it's not a fairy tale."
The inside was just as plain and tidy as the outside. The main room was a kitchen and living area, with a single door leading off elsewhere. By the fire sat an old woman with hair as white as snow.
"Call me Dauphine," the younger woman said, shutting the door behind them. "And this is my mother, Marguerite."
The old lady didn't move, only continued to stare into the grate. Warmth filled the small house, the fire crackling quietly.
"My mother hasn't been able to tell the story in some years, but there was a time she welcomed anyone wanting to hear it," Dauphine continued. "Especially if they had any experience of their own."
Laurent kept his expression blank in the face of her scrutiny. Despite how plain the house was, a wreath of midwinter branches hung behind the door, and a crude painting of a stag sat on a shelf. The signs of the old faith were scattered but clear.
"And what did your mother tell the people that she invited inside?"
Dauphine stepped up beside her mother but Marguerite didn't stir, not even at the hand resting on her shoulder. "My mother died when I was three years old. We buried her down the road; it was my first memory as a child. I grew up knowing my father as a sad, quiet man, who never stopped mourning my mother. And when I was ten, she came back."
The fire popped but no one else spoke. Despite the fire, Laurent suppressed a chill.
"When she walked in that door, it was like the life had returned to my father. I never questioned it; I was a child, as far as I knew, that was normal enough. Besides, I didn't remember her from before."
"But your father was certain it was her?" Laurent pressed.
"Oh yes," Dauphine said. "He believed it with all his heart and I believed him. Not many other people did. You might not either. But he always told me that with enough love, anything was possible if both people wanted it enough. It's a nice thought, isn't it? That fate can take mercy on our suffering and bring back someone we love so much."
Laurent wasn't sure he was convinced even if Dauphine was. "What about your faith?" Laurent glanced at the painting. "Didn't it ever make you doubt?"
"No." Her answer was firm. "My faith is why I believe there is more to this world than scholars and explorers can tell us." She moved to place the kettle over the fire as she spoke. "Learned people see and know a lot, no doubt. They learn by searching and verifying, but there are some things that are impossible to prove. Questions like how we should live our lives? That's not something you can measure or prove. Sometimes you just have to believe in something. And that? That is no contradiction with any faith on Earth."
She straightened and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Now, can I offer you gentlemen some tea?"
They didn't stay for tea, though Laurent assured Dauphine it smelt wonderful. She gave him a look that was far too knowing when he said he needed to leave again.
"Your Majesty," Jord began as they walked from the little house, "If it's true..."
"It's not," Laurent interrupted him. "Maybe they believe it's true, but that doesn't make them right."
Jord nodded, but didn't look convinced.
-
That night Laurent dreamed of a white dove soaring through blinding white sky, until it finally came to rest in the branches of an olive tree, like one of those he'd seen outside Ios.
He was sweating when he woke, and stared into the darkness of his room.
Everything was still. His fire had grown dark, with nothing but glowing embers left now, and the palace lay silent around him.
The stories were getting to him.
Laurent lay on his back and breathed, collecting the shreds of his awareness as the dream faded.
He needed to stop and focus on what he knew for certain: there were Lords in his country trying to destabilise his rule by undermining his confidence. That, he had evidence for.
No more stories, he decided. No more fairy tales. His hopeless heart knew how to live with bitter reality and it would do so again.
No more chasing childish dreams.
On to Part 4.
