Chapter 13 #2
An instinct I don’t want to parse that has nothing, and everything, to do with bloodlust flickers.
I can’t look away from those hands, from the grace and strength of fingers that claimed my throat only days past. Hands at rest that hold so much power to be wielded at any moment, instruments of pain, of pleasure, or I suspect, both .
I don’t know what they will be for me, but when I look in his eyes, I wonder if I’m lying to myself.
I wonder if I already know.
This can’t be. No.
As if in response to my silent denial, or maybe it’s written on my face, he lifts the hand resting idly on his sword hilt. Slowly, as if stalking a skittish beast, the very tips of those fingers brush along my cheekbone.
The lightest touch. It burns, but not from physical pain. The second he’s stolen without permission, the bitter reality of droit du seigneur. “You presume,” I say.
Why? I don’t ask. I don’t like the weakness inherent in the question.
“Yes.”
Nothing else. Just that. Yes.
I don’t like any male touching me without permission; it’s always a power flex, a game of dominance. I should smack his hand away, but there's something about staring into those moonstone eyes that shrivels temper, makes defiance petty. I still recognize a stronger predator, and hold still.
For now.
But those fingers curl inward, and he lowers the hand back to his sword hilt.
“I'll extract the price of that touch today,” I say. Quietly, because there's not a sound in the square other than that made by horses or birds. Even the wind holds its breath.
“Nothing worth taking is without cost, Lady. Remember.”
We stare at each other.
“Is this what you want?” the Prince of Everenne says.
I despise . That. Question .
“There are many things I want, and many I don’t,” I say. “There are times I don’t have the choice between either.”
It’s too reasonable, and too late. The Houses could have ended the internecine warfare years ago if we'd battled it out in open combat rather than endless cycles of petty ambushes and retaliations—or, I concede, diplomacy. But then we would’ve had to find something else to spend our endless time on.
In the chill of the dimming spring day, Renaud's blue-under-sunlight hair moves in a breeze as he gives me time to reflect. He has nothing but time, after all. Well, so do I, but Low Fae tend to die younger.
I look into swirling eyes and wonder how much of his consciousness is present. Eyes the color of broken glass, like a shattered mirror, or a shattered mind.
“If you ask it, for you, I will extend my mercy to the rabble,” he says, his deep voice quiet. “I will offer you. . .some. . .choice.”
It’s lost the wintry, sepulchral quality of the other day, but I shiver nonetheless. He possesses the emotion of a corpse, though his skin color has deepened a smidgen from its sunless hue.
“I recall the historical examples of your mercy.” Especially since I'd jumped off my high ignorant horse and done a bit of bedtime reading. “So. . .no thanks.”
The magic of the Vow I made slithers round my throat, then settles. But that slight movement is enough to remind me, as if I'd forgotten. I must kill this male or die myself. Perhaps not now, but soon enough if I fail.
“You understand you will die if you face me head-on in battle? Defiance is futile. ”
Okay, Borg. “We're not afraid to die.” Maybe if I say it enough times. . .
“For what?”
I rock back on my heels. “Is that a serious question?”
“Quite. You are young, little halfling. For what do you fight? You spend your power, and your attention, unwisely, when you should hoard it.”
My throat closes on my rage—an emotion always close at hand. “You named my mother. You know why I fight.”
He’s silent a beat. “Very well. If you wish to cease hostilities and bow, I may be moved to spare those left alive. It had been my intent to avoid bloodshed this time. My people will strike to kill only if necessary.”
This bastard. He says that now, taking the supposed high road while on the verge of crushing us, after decades of floating around in the ether while his House ran amok doing whatever it wanted.
“The trivial insult that started this feud, Aerinne, was not a cause your mother believed in.” He turns on his heels and strides back to his warriors.
I whirl and jog back to mine, swallowing fury. As if that original, trivial insult matters to me at all. He knows it doesn't.
I nod at a squire who takes my cloak and my horse's reins to lead it away. I'll fight on foot. I'm not the best rider and my Skills are more suited to feet firmly on ground.
Numair and Juliette give me sidelong looks. édouard ignores us, staring after the Prince, his face hard and blank.
Rules of engagement force me to present Prince Renaud's terms. “Our Old One says that if at any time we wish to break the knee in a bow, he will cease hostilities and show us all mercy.”
Though I keep my voice shorn of opinion, a smatter of laughter runs through the forces. A grim smile cracks my face. We agree on the value of that horseshit offer.
“He said he wanted to avoid bloodshed this time,” I add, to more laughter. Faronne prefers to enter a battle on the heels of mirth anyway.
“His nap must have been restful,” Tereille murmurs, “to produce such a delightful sense of humor.” Then he sobers. “If you see an opportunity where that offer appears genuine, you call a flag, Rinne.”
édouard's expression tightens. They'd probably been arguing about this since the meeting.
I hesitate, but nod then face the enemy and unsheathe my sabre.
“They'll wait for us to make the first move, so they can maintain the fiction of taking the high road,” I say, and snort.
High Lord Manuelle spits. “The high road is slick with the blood of my kin.”
“So let's take the high road back.” That is all the speech I give; we know why we fight and I’m not great with words when I’m sober. I grip the hilt of my sabre.
“Tea time's over,” Tereille singsongs, drawing his sword in a smooth movement, bottle green eyes going dark and feral.
“Archers,” édouard says.
The units step to the front of the line and draw their bows, two lines of intermingled Faronne cobalt-and-vermillion, Wyvenne black-and-flame yellow, Ramonne purple-and-persimmon.
The Fae war like a meadow of wildflowers, hair fluttering in the breeze, vulpine faces and jeweled eyes. A riot of color and variation.
Soon, the only color left will be scarlet.
“Fire.”
The first volley flies, a strident twang of bows, arrows an aria. Shimmers of energy snap up as the White Guard shield. The Prince doesn't move, and seconds later our arrows disintegrate in the air. I blink.
That’s new.
Numair sighs. “No archers.”
“That's good intel,” Tereille says. “Now we know.”
“It's almost like there are disadvantages to dark-age warfare,” I say. “Shocking.”
Juliette tugs on her braid. “I predict we're all fucked.”
“Maybe we can roll Montague for it,” Lela calls out to more laughter. “I brought lucky dice.”
“We know all about your dice, Lelaliane,” Manuelle murmurs, a silky undercurrent in his voice.
“I'll bet you we last till moonrise,” Numair says.
“Stakes?” Juliette demands. “Nevermind. Your stakes are always shit.”
“Fuck it. Archers, fire at will,” édouard growls.
I laugh, wild and unfettered, genuinely happy in this moment.
We are so. . .Faronne.
In life, in death. They are mine and how I love them all.
Manuelle draws his sword while Louvenia holds a slender, bladed staff, her silent attention on the unmoving Montague forces. He's chosen to remain mounted while she is on the ground like me .
“Remember, I'll deal with the Prince myself,” I say. She nods curtly without looking at me.
Oh, will you? Will you indeed deal with the Prince? You are as arrogant and infuriating as your mother in her youth. Kuthliele blood always flows true.
I'm not the strongest warrior among us, but I have my little edge. My Skills combined give me the best chance of getting close enough to him to strike a deathblow.
He will literally never see me coming.
Rich laughter in my mind. Oh, my halfling. It is near impossible to remain angry in the face of such charming na?veté.
Despite Darkan’s derision, the presence of my—I no longer think he’s the better—half, comforts me. Steadies. Across the glossy white square, our gazes meet. I lift my sabre, pointing the tip at him.
Renaud’s smile blooms, as dark as his eyes are blue, incisors a little too sharp. He walks forward.
Fight well, my Nyawira. Let your rage decimate the field. But when it is spent, accept the white flag.
Around us, Everennesse charge. . .
. . .and I don't know whose voice spoke those words.