Page 79 of Prince of Night and Storm
“We're beyond the use of my title,” I say. “Considering your House tried to have me killed at least three times that I know of.”
A slight narrowing of his eyes. The silence of a male leashing a temper rarely provoked because no one dares defiance.
“Ah.” I keep my voice polite. “Was it unmannerly to make mention?”
Congratulations,Darkan says, managing to sound both weary and sour,you opened your mouth, with predictable diplomacy. Which is to say, none.
They did not train the Mad Dog of Faronne fordiplomacy.
They barely trained me for self-preservation.
You must learn, Aerinne. I will not always save you from yourself.
You are me.
Think that if it comforts you.
The dark tone of his mental voice hints at secrets I fear, threads I shy from pulling. I don't want to unravel the carefully woven cloak of comfort he offers only to find it conceals a monster. Or worse, a lie.
“Indeed,” House Montague's High Lord says, the caress in his voice silk and dripping candle wax. “You may address me as Renaud.”
My body clenches at that voice and I mentally recoil. It’s a physiological reaction; it means nothing. Nothing.
But my heartbeat lurches into a half-panicked gallop. “No thanks. Though if you invite me to address you as?—”
“My daughter is honored,” Baba says. His smile is pleasant, his glance at me not so much.
Belatedly, I process the dubious. . .what’s the word Baba forced from his too human throat? Yes, honor. The dubioushonorthe Prince bestows on me, to use his name as if we're equals. Or intimates.
It's a small, stinging punishment, like an open palmed slap. The High Court will wonder at our relationship now if word of his morning call hasn’t circulated—I’m not that optimistic.
He’s sicced every Fae with any political power and ambition in Everenne on me, certainly the ones of high rank who’ve ignored me until now.
We’re going to have tofeedthem when they come to call.
This gutter born bastard.
The term is incorrect.Darkan’s chill, almost offended if Ididn’t damn well know better, mental tone arrests my attention.He is a younger son of two Ancients, Nayya Gravvanne called Gravenrose, and Assariel Temthrennes called Stormthrone, who are of the highest lineage and mostassuredlybound in ways far beyond a messy halfling toddler’s meager comprehension.
I didn’t mean bastard in its literal definition, Dark angel. It’s pejorative.But it begs another series of questions.Why is Nora afraid of the Temthrennes? Other than the usual reasons. The fear seems deeper.
The Temthrennes abjure chaos. They are its wardens; they husband and contain it.
Lovely. The origin of every dictator ever. My inappropriate not-humor wags its tail again.Oh, well, that’s not great, since I am chaos.
Indeed. Perhaps you are fated for the Prince then.
Wow. What did I do to piss you off this week.
He scoffs.
“She doesn’t appear appreciative of the honor, father of Aerinne,”?2 the Prince remarks, “and I don’t believe we have her full attention.”
The thread of cruel mischief in his voice reminds me of Darkan plucking metaphoric wings from my back when he's in a mood.
I sink into a curtsy to avoid having tospeak, and hold the obeisance steady, neck bent, jaw and abdomen clenched.
“Ah. Perhaps your gratitudeisa lesson for the Court. Observe, all, howgracefully she bends.”
