Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
AMBUSH
O, I am fortune's fool!
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 1
D on't distract me at a bad time or make me do anything stupid, I warn Darkan as we leave the carriage.
Myself—whatever. I don't see how he can be a fractured part of my psyche, but every time I try to think about it?—
You dare?
That got his attention. I sigh inwardly and brace myself. He never disappoints.
Faronne is hotheaded, lacks refined manners, is swayed by bloodthirst to the point of savagery ? —
We are Low Fae. House Faronne boasts mainly youths under five hundred, uncouth and loud, few of us outside the direct bloodline with any strong power. Some of us have our Skills, which are useful, but a Skill doesn't always equal sheer strength.
None of you have any dignity, he adds with a curl of spite.
Baba.
He is only one man.
True.
Tata Fatma and M?r?ngar? too. But though they’re the best behaved of us all and related to me by blood, they’re considered wards by other Fae rather than actual members of Faronne, other than those who’ve sworn themselves to House service.
The other Houses mock you. Your humans are better behaved than Fae.
Also true.
The units proceed with caution to the meeting point our intel designated, slipping into the dense old-growth forest of lichen-covered firs the size of redwoods.
A cousin Skilled to manipulate shadows covers our approach to the campsite. We evade Montague's blue-and-silver armored warriors, and I recognize the colors of three other Houses. Two allies of Montague, including Labornne, one that claims to be neutral, and Sivenne.
A Faronne ally.
I hiss. Traitors. I’ll burn their House down around their ears.
Our House might be uncouth, rowdy and poor, but we are relentless. We have to be to make up for our shortcomings. Relentlessness is free; we’ve perfected our thorns.
édouard signals to Numair, and the order spreads throughout the units.
Once again I wish for the telepathy many Fae possessed back in the old Realm, but no one born on this soil after the original crossing developed that affinity—my mother hadn’t been certain why, except that perhaps something we need is missing in this Realm.
A trilling bird call whistles from the forest canopy. We burst forward, a battle cry in our throats.
I unsheathe a light double-edged blade designed for slashing instead of thrusting, balanced to avoid straining my slender wrists.
We brought six units expecting to interrupt a small, routine political meet guarded by a minimum of warriors because Montague assumed today is business as usual—Faronne typically only attacks military targets and supply caches.
In seconds I recognize the lack of surprise on enemy faces. The scent in the air is almost sweet, my silent vindication most certainly bitter.
More emerge from the trees, jumping lightly from high branches. We’re outnumbered three to one, and from édouard's face he realizes the same.
We've been lured. I don’t have the heart to say I told you so, even internally.
A Montague warrior leaps in front of me; my height, but sixty pounds heavier with muscle under his armor. Tension flutters through my veins, tightening my muscles with a rush of adrenaline.
“The halfling Mad Dog of Faronne,” he says, the mingled delight and contempt in his voice edged with satisfaction. Right. He thinks he’ll earn a promotion by managing to kill Aerinne Kuthliele.
“She is I, and I am several of her,” I murmur, already dissecting his style of movement. My physical strength will never be at the level of a full-blooded Fae, but I match their speed.
His sneer deepens. “We'll see if you’re as good with a blade as they say. I think it a lie.” We circle. “An unSkilled wretch can't hope to defeat me. You will die.”
Realms, he's one of those. A talker. And who said I was good with a blade? I'm slipping. I'm going to have to counter that rumor.
“Not if you don't stop talking I won't,” I say, though I shouldn't give him even that much of my dignity.
He feigns left, but I don't fall for the ruse, parrying his true strike. Eyes don't lie.
Stupid too, for assuming I’m unSkilled. Skills are unique to the person, wild magic we're born with if at all, an artifact of the individual's mind and we assume a genetic quirk, what the humans would call a random mutation. No one advertises their particular Skill unless they must, or they’re a non-combatant. It’s just good strategy to keep one's mouth shut.
No point in debating the walking dead, though. I don't flaunt my deck of Skills, so those whom I’ve taught some respect are mostly buried six feet deep. When I bother with a grave.
“Aerinne, stop fucking around,” Juliette says, sprinting past me, knives flying.
Fine.
I flicker out of sight, the warrior dying a moment after his eyes widen in shock. Because I heavily encourage rumors that my human blood renders me powerless, no enemy expects anything but a mid-level, albeit well-trained, soldier.
I slash his neck in a blur of speed that lasts a fraction of a second—speed and accuracy, my secondary Skill, though sometimes I wonder if it's a form of precog—then engage a second warrior. A third, grimly cutting through the ranks to peel away their advantage of numbers.
Nails drive into my temples in warning, forcing me to drop both invisibility and speed before I burn out.
I'd tried pushing past burnout once. With unpleasant results. Fortunately, my Fae side heals the brain bleeds within a month.
Numair and Juliette return to my side as I’m subsequently swarmed. Juliette cries out, and I spare a second to determine that she hasn't fallen.
We fight, evenly matched, and I think the battle might go in our favor?—
—until my illusions disintegrate under a new bite of power.
“High Fae!” I shout, though no one will have failed to recognize the weight and metallic tang of their power.
Two emerge from the trees. Our opponents retreat, no longer needed. I grip the hilt of my sabre, hyper-focused on the new threat.
“Fuck,” Juliette mutters, her face pale with the fear of any Low Fae. Most of us wield only a trickle of magic. Few of us possess Skills.
I echo her grim sentiment. Montague played us with a shiny safehouse full of toys while they recruited allies. When I survive this, damnit, I’m going to address the issue of our predictability.
These High Fae aren't from Everenne; our city claims only three now that my mother is dead. Renaud, Nora, and more recently, Baroun. Danon is close, so close the courtesy title High Lord is closer to fact. Embriel had been on the cusp .
“Retreat and scatter!” édouard roars.
Tereille joins us, pausing at his mate's side to grin at the High Fae, eyes sparkling to match the loops of silver chain around his arm, the end tipped with a spiked metal ball.
“What fun!” he singsongs. We’re already retreating as Tereille makes his quip. “Outpowered, outplanned; outmaneuvered, outmanned.”
édouard’s shoulders curl in before he catches himself. “No singing. ”
I snort. I don’t know why Arddie bothers. It will only encourage Tereille.
“Aerinne, my thornbeauty, don't tell my love I told you so. It will drive him mad.”
“As requested, I will refrain from remarking on the Commander’s reckless reconnaissance.” I sigh. It’s better to just go with it.
“By the Realms, Rinne. . .” édouard growls—then stops.
See? Too late.
Slipping into the trees, we run into a massive shield; the energy field contracts, forcing us back into the clearing.
Only a handful of us possess strong personal shields, and this is not that.
We won't survive two battle-trained High Fae.
High Fae are to Low, what Low are to humans. Outpowered, outmanned, indeed.
Darkan! I need you.
He stirs in response to my inner tug, his distant attention drawing near with the pulse of a silent question.
One of the High Fae smiles, a female with long red hair and copper skin, her brown eyes wide with delight.
The male next to her wears his nearly white hair in close-cropped curls, his full lips flattened.
Silvery blue eyes set in a light gold face stare at us.
“Shield!” édouard orders. He faces the enemy chin lowered, braced as if ready to charge.
The High Fae pace forward.
Aerinne, Darkan says, sharp voice absent his usual impatience or scathing, if affectionate, amusement. Almost brutal in its brusque focus. Someone has hurt ? —
Help me! I fling everything at him.
Etlehar. ? 1 Brace.
1 ? Literal definition is “cursed.” It basically means “damn” but with more urgency and a touch of viciousness. Indicates that the individual has been caught off guard. (Uh. . .Darkan. . .objects to the insinuation he is ever caught off guard.)