Chapter Text
The wine is overly sweet, the taste of it cloying on Damen's tongue. He takes another sip, unwilling to appear impolite.
Lord de Vere is an imposing man. His hair is dark brown, peppered with gray at the temples; his beard, trimmed and tidy. The surcoat he wears—a deep red detailed with a glimmering gold thread, a far cry from the colors of his house—fits him like a second skin. The buttons are done all the way up to the base of his throat; the collar of the tunic underneath stands high, a stark white, framing his neck.
He looks wholly relaxed, sitting in the armchair across from Damen, the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips. His demeanor is entirely at odds with the topic of the conversation, but who is Damen to judge? Lord de Vere has had years to make his peace with the situation.
"It brings me no joy to have to resort to such measures," Lord de Vere says. The wine has stained his mouth blood-red. He dabs at it with a napkin. "But the older my nephew grows, the harder it becomes to ignore his… affliction."
Damen hums in vague agreement. "You mentioned a curse in your letter."
The missive arrived not a fortnight ago at the inn he was staying at. The messenger held it in his hands with something not unlike reverence and seemed unwilling to part with the parchment as Damen went to take it from him. The elder de Vere, it would appear, is well-liked in these parts.
The same cannot be said for his nephew.
"I'm sure you're aware of the Curse of the Black Sun," Lord de Vere says, quietly. His eyes wander the room as though he's making sure no one is around to hear. "My nephew was born on that unfortunate night, twenty years past."
"I've heard of it," Damen confirms. "Though I have yet to see proof of its veracity."
For a long moment, Lord de Vere doesn't speak. He takes another sip of his wine, then stares deep into the glass, seemingly lost in thought.
"When he was five," he finally says, voice as quiet as a whisper, perhaps in fear that his nephew has spies among the household staff. "My nephew stabbed his elder brother with a sword. None of us expected he would make it—the wound festered for weeks and weeks until my own brother, the boys' father, finally found a sorceress willing to make the trip to our little hamlet and heal him." At this, Lord de Vere smiles almost self-deprecatingly.
Arles must have expanded significantly since then. The de Vere residence may be situated amidst fields, but the nearby city is sizable, full of tall stone buildings and shops on every other corner. The marketplace, too, is far larger than Damen expected to find, teeming with imported goods that attest to the area's prosperity. 'Hamlet' is the last word he would use to describe it.
"I see," Damen says, when it becomes clear Lord de Vere is awaiting his reaction.
Lord de Vere sighs and looks up at him. He appears tired all of a sudden, eyelids drooping, the corners of his mouth turned down. "Laurent's elder brother helped curb the worst of the impulses, after, but unfortunately, he is no longer with us."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you," Lord de Vere says. He only continues after a short pause, "I realize that is far from enough proof for you. There are other stories I could tell, of how he killed his beloved pet bird or held another boy's head under water nearly long enough for him to drown, but perhaps it would be better for you to speak to Laurent in person and come to your own conclusions."
"Perhaps that would be best," Damen agrees, putting his wineglass down on the end table. The dregs of liquid at the bottom are so dark they're almost black in the fading daylight. Not unlike blood.
He stands, perhaps too suddenly, because Lord de Vere startles as he looks up at him.
"You'll be taking the contract, then?" he asks, putting down his own wine glass and rising to his feet. He's shorter than Damen, but he more than makes up for it with the way he carries himself, carefully controlled with an air of command.
"As you said, I'll need to speak to your nephew first," Damen tells him, unwilling, if not unable, to lie. At the very least, his moral code would not allow him to take the life of a sentient creature without prior justification and exhausting all possible alternatives. "Though I am not ruling it out."
It's only thanks to his enhanced vision that he sees one corner of Lord de Vere's lips twitch. He isn't happy with Damen's answer.
"I thank you," Lord de Vere says, "For your time. You will be well-compensated, of course, even should you decide not to go through with it."
"That is very gracious of you, my lord. I appreciate the gesture," Damen says, briefly inclining his head. "Do you perchance know where your nephew is?"
"I'm afraid Laurent tends to spend most of his time away from the estate these days. But worry not, I'll send him your way soon enough. If you could refrain from telling him about our meeting, I would be incredibly grateful. I dread to think what he would do should he find out we spoke."
"Of course," Damen agrees easily. He grabs his sword belt from where it lies at the end of the sofa. "I'll remain at the inn in Nesson-Eloy. He should be able to find me well enough."
Lord de Vere smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I am in your debt."
Damen nods once, in farewell, then walks out of the room. The floorboards creak with every step he takes, a testament to the age of the house. At the end of the hall a servant awaits, ready to show him out—a young man, perhaps 18 years of age, with dark hair. He stares for too long at Damen's eyes, then the two swords he's holding, but doesn't say a word as he leads Damen out to the courtyard, where his horse is already waiting for him.
When Damen looks up, Lord de Vere is watching him from the window.
He isn't an unattractive man, nor is he unkind. Most certainly, he does not seem like the kind of man who would wish for harm to befall a member of his family. Still, the slightest whisper of doubt creeps in, spreading through Damen's veins like poison.
Throughout their entire conversation, Lord de Vere's heart rate had not wavered once.