Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
TO THE FIELD
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 4
I wrest a few hours to sleep and prepare after my little talk with the Commander. Once Faronne and our allies decide to strike, we organize within the day, mount horses and ride out through Faronne District toward the palace the next afternoon.
Cobalt-and-vermillion leather clad warriors line the cobblestone streets, falling into formation as I canter past, édouard, Juliette, Numair and Tereille at my sides and rear. Our mounted knights clop behind us, metal armor with the trident at the shoulder reflecting the anemic sunlight.
I also wear armor, the gold trident and kraken of my ancient ruling House etched in full on my chest; pauldron, breastplate, vambrace, poleyn and greaves, a spring weight House cloak over my shoulders, my hair tightly braided on the sides and left flowing down my back—for style points, because Tereille and Juliette insisted.
Rain scents the air though the storms gathering on the distant mountain horizon have been teasing us for days; no clouds move, no rain falls. But the threat is felt. Why it feels like a threat, rather than weather, I don't know.
Did you hit your head during the last battle?
Darkan rants, his internal voice frigid.
He's always been a master of icy-hot. Have I taught you nothing of strategy?
Your play is to launch a frontal assault?
I should kill you myself and save Montague the embarrassment of leaving bed to entertain an infant leading a House of Low Fae fools.
Well, he’s in a mood. If we wait, the Prince will be at our doorstep.
Oh, yes, you believe he cleared the field and saved your ungrateful, rabid lives because he is interested in further war.
Don't you always say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?
Silence.
I sniff. I think you give him too much credit.
He is giving you what you want, you stubborn child.
He doesn’t even know what I want.
Allow me to amend stubborn to ignorant.
But I second-guess myself, envisioning a line of white-clad warriors. To be of the White Guard is to swear fealty to the throne, give up allegiance to House and bloodline. No one outside the White knows your name or face. You are simply an extension of the will of the Prince.
He'd be a fool not to use them as spies as well, but the one time I'd asked that question, Danon told me never to ask it again.
Each of the White is as deadly as three of our best trained warriors, which is why we abandon the rules of honorable combat and don't bother to warn the palace. They post scouts like we do—they'll know within the hour that our forces march through the city.
I don’t have any choice, Darkan.
I am all ears. Please. . .explain your reasoning. I will wait. Your fumbling attempt at critical thinking should amuse.
Really in a mood. You don't sound like you think it's amusing. He’s also approaching my line of tolerance for his acidic commentary, which is happening more often lately than I like. As if he’s the one suffering from poor sleep, stress, and truly unfortunate sobriety.
There is always entertainment in spilling blood, Aerinne, is the clipped reply. If I hadn’t underestimated the depth of disregard you have for your own, I would have addressed your education differently.
But I’m not above a little petty revenge. Do you know me? What education? College doesn't count—Juliette and I were mostly drunk. And let me tell you, holding a glamour while drunk is harder than it seems.
As expected, the facetious tone ignites his ire—there’s a satisfying internal rush of his scalding scorn. I wonder how often he wishes he could strangle me. Yes, if I survive this, we’ll be having a long talk.
Not just one talk, halfling.
That sounds far more ominous than it has any right to be.
I could force you to retreat.
If I was walking, I would trip. I've never heard his voice so silky, so chillingly thoughtful. Involuntarily, I glance at édouard—like he can do anything.
Am I that at war with myself? How could Darkan force?—
But, I'm inclined to allow you to experience this lesson. One mustn’t clip a chirping harpy’s wings too soon—what use is she grounded for life—and I’ve forgotten what it is like to be young and blithely ignorant. I’ve been much too distracted.
By. . .what?
Remember, Kuthliele get—stubborn brats are punished. You cannot fathom how I will relish that day. You have been an unexpectedly difficult trial since ? —
He cuts off right when the rant is about to get interesting, of course. As usual.
Since?
Perhaps, he says after a thoughtful pause, a change in perspective is warranted. Today presents the first opportunity, after all.
I think you like being cryptic on purpose, just to listen to me chase your wagging tail for a completed thought.
Darkan may be the reason my senses are so honed; I can’t see him, but I have learned to feel his expressions. The smile blooming in my mind emanates sudden amusement, and malice.
I believe I’ve changed my mind, Aerinne Nyawira Kuthliele.
I stiffen. Using my full name never means anything good, and there have been one or two times over the years he was able to make good on a vague threat—though I could prove nothing.
I think I will fully enjoy the fruits of this foolish frontal assault after all.
The fruits of—we spend too much time around Tereille .
When it’s clear he’s retreated, I return to my not so private thoughts. “He’s right about our strategy lacking. . .a bit of finesse,” I mutter, watching our surroundings as we trot down the Boulevard—neutral territory that doesn’t require permission from the House Lords to march our troops through.
Edouard doesn’t look at me, but he responds. “We’re committed.” So stop whining, is left unsaid. “Would you rather we’d attacked Montague House?”
This pain in my ass knows damn well— “No.”
“That would be no fun, my love,” Tereille says from Ard’s other side. I give him a sidelong glance. His cheer is wildly inappropriate, and also wildly in character. “Only their civilian members live there. Everyone who thinks they are of military import lodges at the palace.”
“Like roaches,” I say.
Tereille tsks. “Well, we wouldn’t know anything about roaches, now would we?”
Facing Gauthier and Co like this is no lightweight decision, but it’s grim comfort I'm not the only one choosing to throw away their life today. And really, what else would anyone expect? We strike fast and wince later.
“If we survive this,” I say, “Faronne may want to address its reputation as a slow thinking, strategic House.”
“What?” édouard says.
Clearly, he missed the joke.
Montague’s streets are quiet, proof they expected us and ordered its residents to remain in their homes.
Baroun, when given the choice, prefers to stomp out his enemies rather than pick them off one-by-one.
But perhaps Montague's newly awake High Lord has ordered the retreat, to deal with us himself.
I know which scenario I vote most likely.
Roughly thirty-six hours since the Prince gatecrashed our skirmish, we clear Montague District, the final before reaching the palace, and halt with the sun at our backs.
A large enough for festivals white courtyard sits in front of the first set of palace gates, fields on either side, the forest line a mile beyond.
Not ideal terrain for a battle, but the best we have coming in this direction.
“The gates are closed,” I remark. “Almost like they were expecting us.” Someone snorts.
I dismount as Manuelle Wyvenne and Louvenia Ramonne pull alongside me. Faronne, Wyvenne, and Ramonne face Montague, Labornne, and Lavigne. I scan them quickly. As I thought, Sivenne stayed home. Not that Montague needs them.
A tall male stands in front of a wall of White Guard, and Montague's silver-and-white warriors. Labornne's rose-and-sky blue warriors are present, red-gold hair and light eyes their House stamp. A smattering of Lavigne's blood red hair and night dark skin, with eyes to match their livery.
Numair and Juliette dismount as well, staring at the Prince with the same unease one might if one of the mythical Dark Fae had risen.
My heart sinks but I don’t need it, my focus on Prince Renaud.
I tilt my head, otherwise still, studying him as I ignore pain in my nail beds, my gums, my shoulder blades, all the usual signs of battlelust rising.
All the usual signs the feral dark within stirs.
“So we're going to do this thing?” I ask no one.
“Have faith,” the Commander says .
“Oh, I have faith,” Tereille says. “Funereal faith that we'll all die gloriously. But what better way to brave a battle than amongst those you love, on your way to meet again those you mourn.”
All in or all out, and the decision has been made. As I told Darkan, I no longer have a choice. I haven’t yet learned to tred in a tidal wave.
I straighten my shoulders. “Right. Time to do this.”
As the highest-ranked in my House, unfortunately the pre-battle treating falls to me. The horseshit work usually does. It could be worse—it could be Baroun. The Montague Prince walks forward alone, an irrelevant army at his back—pretty though. Their whites will look lovely soaked in red.
I pace forward as well, senses hyper-focusing, vermillion cloak fluttering around me—I’ll take it off before the fight starts.
We meet halfway between our forces.
Impassive eyes fix on my face. He wears pauldron, vambrace and greaves like ornaments rather than armor, his tunic high-necked and white, heavy with metallic silver embroidery.
One hand rests on the hilt of his sword, his slightly long, manicured nails with an opalescent shimmer—except for the matte black ring finger.