Page 42 of Prince of Night and Storm
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 breakthe 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, hairfluttering 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.”
