Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
A CALL TO WAR
I fear too early, for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 4
Present
I step inside the Faronne Houses dining/war room, prowling the perimeter as family and vassals descend. We'd spent hours caring for our injured and dead, but it’s late and there are decisions to be made.
Darkan? I have questions.
So many questions.
I grab a chair back when a sudden rush of flame and fury answers my query, sucking my consciousness deep into the void of my mind.
In this gray, amorphous place, the vague outline of a tall masculine figure emerges, striding toward me. Anger, disappointment, the flickering edges of a fiery emotion. This mood calls for an immediate offensive. If you've forgotten how to play nice, we can't be friends anymore.
Do you realize what you did, you foolish girl?
What do you mean, what I did? I want to know what you did. An edge in my voice despite the empty threat because despite my tolerance for acidic commentary, at a certain point I draw a line.
You made a Vow.
Oh, that.
When will you learn to think past your nose and present, petty motivations?
Funny. I've been asking myself the exact same question lately. The good news is there's much room for growth. Nowhere to go but up.
Tendrils of gray wrap around my body and constrict. I let Darkan use me as a stress ball while I chase a few paltry minutes of physical rest. I shouldn't have Vowed. In my defense ? —
There is no defense for stupidity. Haven't I taught you better?
The crux of the matter. I'm not entirely sure that's possible, considering you are me and I am you. I don't know what else I could have taught myself over the years. Maybe I could work on thinking before I speak a bit more, but . . .I trail off.
His annoyance deepens. Extricating you from this will require attention needed elsewhere. I should strangle you and be done with it. But I won’t allow a Vow to deprive me of the pleasure of wrapping my hands around your throat and squeezing. It would be slow. It would be satisfying .
So violent. Which reassures me. How many times have I thought nearly the exact same words about dear Ard?
The feeling is likewise mutual.
Darkan’s seething presence withdraws halfway between a mental stomp and a flounce.
I emerge from my mind as the first of my family enters. The warm, textured walls fail to comfort me as édouard, Baba, and our highest ranked knights take chairs at the heavy wood table.
“We need to scour our organization,” Juliette says, dropping into a chair. She flicks a throwing star in her fingers, round and round, her under eyes bruised. “We got suckered by bad information and that only happens when there's a traitor in the ranks.”
“Yes,” Baba says slowly, his accent stronger today. “That is a problem that needs solving. I feel confident you can get to the bottom of the matter, édouard.” My father pauses for a beat. “The more pressing issue is our strategy now that Prince Renaud is awake.”
Leaning on the table, I stare down at the grains, my hands flat on its polished surface. “The real question is what will Prince Renaud do.”
I met my greatest enemy in the flesh, and he. . .defended me.
Saved my life. Saved the lives of my people who were not dead before his arrival.
“What exactly did he say to you?” Juliette asks again.
I shake my head. My gaze travels around the table and settles on édouard.
He stands legs slightly spread, arms crossed over his chest, impatience in every line of his body. This meeting is an interruption; when we arrived home, he shut himself in his office to comb over weeks of intel to figure out how we'd been lured into an ambush.
“Why you?” édouard asks. “Why approach you?”
Juliette scoffs. “Because she was the highest-ranking person from Faronne in the field. You're an idiot.”
“I was there.” His expression closes. He’s thinking. I hate when he’s thinking.
“He acknowledged me,” I say. The way he'd said Maman’s name, reminding me they’d been more than friends. As inseparable as siblings who lived apart from each other, with spouses and children and full lives, could be. “He called me Muriel’s daughter.”
I try to recall if she’d been his only real friend, and I think yes, except for a handful of enemies who spoke of him, oddly enough, with some wry warmth.
Darkan proves he’s eavesdropping. That often happens when everyone competent dies and you are surrounded by children who know nothing of history. Your enemies become your companions.
Heavy, bewildered silence blankets the table. “Does the Prince know he killed High Lord Maryonne?” someone asks.
“He must.” I chew my bottom lip in the same place I'd injured it. Remember restless flecks of bright blue in moonstone eyes as his gaze rested on the bitten soft flesh. “Is it possible he feels remorse?”
“The Old Ones don't feel remorse. They know it is useless. But each death is a lesson.”
I turn to Nora, one of the only three High Fae in Everenne since my mother's death.
My great aunt, the eldest of my House, though that is the simplified relationship—she isn't my mother's blood sister. She may have been my great- grandmother's youngest sister, or niece. She isn’t my dominant, but she is my elder and I settle in her presence the way I do Tata Fatma’s.
“You knew him before, didn't you?” I ask.
She did, Darkan says, intonation soft. Nora came through the Realm gate with Muriel. She has also slept many times.
Everything in me sharpens. How could he know that?
Nora slants her grayish-lavender gaze at me as we wait quietly for her to speak. She often loses herself in her thoughts.
“I did,” she says, echoing Darkan. “We were the first to flee. It forced his hand—he was angry with Muriel for abandoning him. He came shortly after Faronne established the House here and took the reins of power to spite her. But I think it is what she intended. She knew him.” Nora goes silent several moments, then shakes herself.
“There was no contest. We bowed. The bloodshed between the Houses came later.”
“What was he in Ninephe? Why did he come to Everenne?”
“We all fled monsters. At first we tried to maintain the bonds, but we reminded each other too much.” She falls silent, eyes distant.
Pressing her will do no good. Her words make just enough sense to confuse me all over again.
Maman once warned me, “Whatever happens, if Renaud ever crosses back over, make sure you are not at his side. You will not survive him.” It was almost all she would say about him—except to stay away—or the home she'd left.
“We need to attack first,” édouard says. He uncrosses his arms and approaches, stopping when he’s also at the head of the table. “This is the first access we've had to our Lord's killer.”
He pauses and meets the gaze of every person in the room, his intensity brimming. Only one or two look away—most listen.
Of course they do. We are Faronne and there is never a fight we sit out, even if against a several thousand-year-old demigod—because certain-death odds are just more fun.
“He's recently awake, he won't be at full strength for a day, maybe two,” édouard continues, glimpsing my expression.
Silence is the best course for a moment; I must take care with my words.
My father is Lord, but I am Muriel’s daughter and Danon's Heir.
Half the House will wait for me to indicate a preference and agree out of loyalty.
I don't want that kind of power. I want each person to choose a path according to their belief.
The Commander, a Darkhound, scents my hesitation. “Would you not risk death to avenge your mother?” A murmur of agreement from the room.
I dig my fingers into my thigh to keep from punching him. “You ask me that question, here, now?” I wait a beat, until I can speak calmly again. “I would avenge her. But I don't want to see my family die needlessly.”
Baba's gaze is furrowed. That is part of our reluctant deal after Danon's capture.
My father assumes Court and administrative duties but washes his hands of any fighting.
He isn't a strict pacifist, but unnecessary war is anathema to him.
My mother must have worked hard to win him over while her House was in the midst of a drawn out conflict.
“He may not even come to the field,” Lela, cousin on my father’s side and one of only two human knights sworn to Faronne, says. “The Old Ones aren't supposed to intervene in House wars. ”
I brace myself on the table. They’re talking themselves into this and I—I can't blame them. I’m just as willing to take the risk with my own life as they are with theirs.
I’m a fool, too.
But it’s my duty to at least attempt to be a voice of reason, even if a drowned out voice of reason. “Forgive me if I don't want to base our strategy on that presumption.”
Numair comes up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “He'll either cease all hostilities or obliterate us. If we wait?—”
“So you're a coward too,” édouard says, brows drawing down in contempt. “We can hide under our beds, or we can attack now and reprimand them for this afternoon's ambush. We can, at the very least, thin Montague ranks in preparation for future conflict.”
“That's all we can hope to do,” Numair says. “If the Prince chooses to take to the field. . .you're blinded by your need for revenge, Commander.”
“And you will spend your life crouched under Aerinne's?—”
“That's enough,” I snap. “Commander, if you can't demonstrate a little more dignity in your discourse, I'll muzzle you and let Tereille do the talking.”
édouard snorts.
“This wouldn't be the first time in Everenne's history Prince Renaud leveled entire portions of the city to settle a dispute between Houses,” I say. “It's just. . .been a while.”