Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
WINE DARK TRUTHS
“ W hat is this?” I ask, gripping my armrests. Idle hands and all that.
“This,” Renaud says, “is dinner.” He leans back in his chair, resting his hand next to his plate. The hand closest to me.
“I can promise you, Prince, that flippancy will get you the opposite of what you want from me. So by all means, continue as you are.”
“You don't know what I want from you.” The hand begins to curl, then relaxes. “I merely sought to ease your tension.”
This casually authoritative male smashed us into submission with a flick of power mere weeks ago.
Pulled two wyverns from the sky with the irritation of a parent chiding a reckless toddler.
Only an hour past his lust scorched me, his fight not to rut me against my will—to an audience. And he wants me to believe he cares about my nerves?
“That implies, however,” he continues in an almost idle tone, “that there is something that will get me what I want from you. It’s less diverting to simply ask you your price. So I won’t.”
“You can never meet it.”
“Never, Lady, is far longer than you are currently able to conceive.” His gaze goes almost contemplative. “I’ve learned, in an Old One’s time, that there is no such thing as never.”
Those words chill me. He says the most innocent things, but they aren’t innocent at all. I am learning that those with true power don’t have to make overt, bloody threats.
The simple ones work far better.
Who is the real Renaud? The lethal warrior, the urbane Prince, the smoldering lover, the feral male in rut, or this glacial, untouchable High Lord?
He’d also been the grave, almost gentle Old One, his quiet warning tinged with regret. . .and resigned yearning.
There are too many of him.
“Death is final,” I say.
He angles his head. “Death is not final. Or I would never have been born.”
But there is another I glimpse, the Other, the leviathan, a monster in the deep of shadowy wings and maelstrom eyes. Every instinct in me whispers to flee.
“Why sit me next to you?”
An invisible rope stretches between us, my demand for answers versus his palpable reluctance to give them to me.
“Why not simply accept your place? My desire to amuse you. Why think about it?” He smiles, brief and thin, as if to say “why start thinking now?”
“Because my place is where I decide. You haven't given me the impression that for all your plans, you're taking what I want into consideration.”
“What,” the word is chipped from a block of stone, “makes you imagine I care what you want?”
Because I would even now be sprawled on the ground, bleeding between my thighs. He pulled back earlier, I admit, and he didn’t have to. Nora said he might, that his restraint is to be feared more than passion that blazes hot, then burns out.
“Any other High Lord would have killed me by now.”
His gaze pales to a whisper of moonlight.
After tonight I will know the moon for the harbinger of monsters it is, and shy from it when full.
“Sweet halfling, I am not any other High Lord. I will not spite myself.”
The gaping maw of this evening continues to widen, salivating, patiently waiting for me to sauce myself and leap right in.
I hope I’m dry and under seasoned.
Renaud turns from me and I remember we aren't alone. I forget so much around him, drawn into his spiral web. This feels like a losing battle and I grasp for any purchase on a slippery, tilting deck stacked against me.
“But,” he says, “I concede your point.”
The admission is unexpected enough I shut up. Besides, trying to think like him is exhausting.
Staff bring in platters upon platters of hot food. Roasted fowl, racks of lamb, fish on beds of greens. Vegetables nestled on pillows of steaming spiced grains, with scattered trays of fruit and cheese for those who prefer lighter fare. Traditional Everennesse dishes .
My attention snares on several more platters familiar to Baba and I, and perhaps Manuelle and Louvenia.
“Ah!” my father exclaims. “You must have some, Nyawira. ? 1 Mukimo na ugali na nyama choma.”? i
Elegant bottles of beer are set at the table in front of me and my father. Picking one up, I sniff, then sip.
I set it down and glance at the platters of meat. Baba fixes me a hearty plate, uncaring of such fancy company we are in, and passes it to Renaud who places it in front of me.
I stare down at the plate, then slowly lift my head and pin the platters with a look.
“What meat is that?” I ask, also slipping into Kikuyu.
“Lamb and goat,” Baba replies. “It is on your plate. Eat.”
Njohi ya Njurio? ii since it’s beer in the bottles, or close enough. Lamb and goat.
It’s the Renaud Gautier version of kumenya mucii and kuhanda Ithigi.? iii Not perfect, but an outsider’s attempt to at least give a nod to Kikuyu marriage customs.
How did he know? There isn’t even internet in Everenne. He would have had to interrogate one of my cousins. . .he had time to do that? When.
I meet my father’s gaze and it is too bland, too pleasant—I really need to learn how to do that.
Diabolical. Renaud is diabolical.
He knew before the evening began he would stake a claim. His chefs would have needed time to prepare. Serving human dishes from my father’s culture is a subtle way to offer me, and Baba in particular as my Lord and father, honor. As I requested, which the Prince anticipated.
He intended a courtship all along.
Was earlier just a lapse in his control, or the real him? Though nothing says he can't act like a rapey monster and pay homage to my family's traditions as well. It isn't as if it's either or—which makes dealing with this High caste blue-eyed demon difficult.
“Tata will box your ears if you eat mukimo with a fork,” I hear myself say, still in our language.
Baba waves his hand. “Eh. What sister does not know, she cannot punish me for.”
“I see. What is my silence worth to you, Baba?”
He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.
It almost makes me smile, and I think that’s Renaud’s purpose.
He expects these rapid fire shifts, these manipulations, to be dizzying.
But I can keep up. As long as his hands aren’t on me.
Which I must recall for the future; don’t let the Prince touch me if I want to keep my brain between my ears and not my legs.
I ignore it all and reach for the bottle of wine, stomach curdling. I will not drink the beer—that is too much like accepting the courtship. The Prince says nothing, though he notes my choice. He doesn’t have to say anything.
Our House has been budgeting for years to support our household plus cover increasing punitive tax burdens. For every Montague warrior we've killed, we've been levied bloodgilt.
The Faronne-Montague feud has beggared us.
And all for what? A dispute with sketchy origins. Of course, that long ago grievance is now a pretext. Now we fight for vengeance far more personal, and also because if we don't we’ll be crushed.
“Otieno, pardon Lady Aerinne and I for neglecting you earlier,” the Prince murmurs, sipping his wine.
I blink. Not only were Danon and Embriel the last Fae to use my father’s non Anglicized name, but the Prince speaks nearly flawless Kikuyu.
My Everennesse is sprinkled with French and spoiled by American English, and that carries into my Kikuyu no matter how I try to erase the accenting.
Renaud sounds as if I taught him, except for his slow lyrical stretch of Ninephene intonation.
My father waves a hand. “My mouth runs a hundred miles a day. It is a nice change to relax and let my daughter practice her conversational talents in civilized company.”
“No one told me we’d changed the definition of civil,” I say, “but okay.”
Renaud arches a brow, a smile curving his lips. “You’ve raised a beguiling daughter. She honors the blood and wisdom of her parents, and is worthy of both.”
Right on cue, the traditional flattery—he didn’t choke on the words either.
I slit my eyes. The Prince isn’t missing a beat, is he, and he even sounds sincere.
If I was a silly girl who didn’t know better, I would drown in the illusion.
He’s a tidal wave, but the sea is always serene and welcoming before disaster strikes.
Baba inclines his head. “She is the pride of my old age.”
I snort.
He ignores me. Baba is valiant like that. “Your Kikuyu is exceptional, Prince. You had none the last we spoke, I believe. ”
“Ah. I have an unusual teacher. The experience has been. . .immersive.”
“That is the best way to learn.” Baba pauses. His voice goes softer. “My wife didn’t tell me you studied it.”
The others at the table openly listen and with a twist of malicious satisfaction, I’m glad they won’t understand a single word.
Renaud stares into his wine glass. “Muriel did not know.”
I don’t understand my father. How he can look at the Prince with—compassion, almost as if they are simply two males grieving the same female. One, a wife, the other, by his word, a sister.
“She would not blame you,” Baba says, and we all know he isn’t speaking of the Prince hiding his learning of our language. “Nor do I.”
He looks up and meets Baba's gaze before glancing away.
And now my father, the bloody diplomat of Everenne, turns his attention to me. “We extend grace to family, and ask that grace likewise be extended. The history of our Houses intertwines beyond centuries. We are not meant to be at odds.”
The Prince is silent. Silence is the same as assent.
Then my heart freezes. Baba’s steady gaze, his words.
. .he knows. He knows about Embriel. Does he then understand Renaud is playing a subtle, brilliantly calculated game?
And if so, does he believe as Nora does, that I should cooperate, lay low, and wait for an opportunity even if that takes centuries?