Page 43 of Prince of Night and Storm
“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 indeeddealwith 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 naïveté.
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.
Chapter
Fourteen
BLOOD ON THE WHITE SQUARE
Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents.
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 3
Acacophony assaults my ears, the ring of swords, cries of pain and triumph, snarls of rage and frustration as warriors tear into each other. Mayhem. Fae relish the release of an open melee.
I fight my way through the press of bodies, my sabre and long dagger slicing through those in my path as I edge relentlessly toward the Prince. Eddies of battle separate us. He seems in no hurry to engage me. To him, the outcome of a duel between us must seem inevitable.
“Lady Aerinne,” a hated voice says, amusement in a courtier’s tones—but I remember when he was a warrior only,cold and brutal, his blade at my throat as he forced Danon to his knees.
High Lord Baroun blocks my path, malice in brilliant yellow topaz eyes lined in thick kohl. Renaud's cousin and now his Regent, his skin is desert dark and his dark hair falls in waves around his shoulders, glinting with reddish highlights. He's responsible for executing the most devastating strikes against Faronne while managing what city business can’t be set aside until the Prince wakes—including taxes, whichhappento hit my House harder than most.
And through some quirk of fate, I murderedEmbry, a male as close to a noncombatant as possible for any High caste to be.
“Did you want to die today, Lord Baroun?” His upper lips curls as I slip into English—what do the older ones call it? Oh, yes. A mongrel mortal tongue. “I'm in a crunch, but I've got some time. I can squeeze you in.”
Though. . .I feel an odd pinch at the thought of Barry’s death.
