Page 40 of Prince of Night and Storm
Darkan may be the reason my senses are so honed; I can’t see him, but I have learned tofeelhis 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 newlyawake 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.
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.
