CHAPTER EXCERPT
I stagger through the Districts of Everenne’s narrow streets, a city to whom I’ve given, and taken, blood and sorrow.
The temperate chill of an almost-autumn evening raises bumps along my exposed skin, the faint breeze stirring my curls. I’d braid my hair back but my palm throbs, pain a dull ache—the bleeding finally stopped.
Our blood mingled, and when Prince Renaud tasted it I felt him slither into my open wound. It wasn’t simply a sexual taunt, it was the start of a binding—even I know that—on top of what I suspect is an unfurling yevserra. With each step I take from the palace, I fight my feet to continue pointing in the right direction. They don’t like leaving him. Blood that should run cold simmers, and my eternal bubbling hatred morphs into a different brew.
My body and my life no longer belong to me.
The evening could have been worse, I tell myself as I pause to regain some balance, though the thought feels hollow. I’m...walking home, not into Renaud’s bedroom, or his dungeon. But that’s only because I’m already leashed and he doesn’t need to keep me locked in a tower to control me.
All the leverage he needed was at his banquet, and I handed him more. But this is what I do, who I am. I survive. My family survives.
-You,- Darkan says, -have an interesting definition of survival. You offered yourself to him—not how one rejects a courtship.-
-I rejected his advances, threatened to kill him, then stabbed him through the hand at dinner.-
-That,- he replies in his patronizing—though surprisingly mellow all things considered—voice, -is light-hearted Temthrennes foreplay.-
I trip, right myself, press my hand against the rough stone of a building for a moment to reorient.
“Nyawira, tell me something you see.”
“A spider, Baba. It’s going to eat me.”
“Tell me something you taste.”
“Blood, Baba. And flesh.”
-Not only is what you did considered foreplay among the High caste in Ninephe,- Darkan continues, patient, relentless, amused, -but it is specifically considered to be a commitment. You gave him blood. In front of witnesses, fati saha.-
-I stabbed him.-
-You stabbed a pretty silver paring knife through your joined hands. I invite you to consider the subtle difference, and the symbolic imagery to creatures who enjoy knife play—at supper, no less.-
-I didn’t mean it like that.- It’s all I can say. All I can think. I need to reorient, to halt the spinning.
-Did you not? Did you really not? I suppose you are what you are, Aerinne. The difficulty is that you don’t truly know what you are. You are so young.-
A clop of horse hooves follows me only minutes after I arrive home. I glance up at the position of the moon in a sky where every star twinkles accusation and mockery. A convoy of carriages halt in the courtyard, a door slamming open as Numair jumps out. I meet hazel eyes as he trots toward me, his jaw tight.
“Rinne! The Prince refused permission to escort you.” His expression is dark. “Which proves he cares nothing for peace if he’d let you wander the city unprotected.”
-That boy is an idiot if he believes you were left unprotected. He’s an idiot regardless.-
-What do you mean?-
-The White, Aerinne.-
-I didn’t sense them.-
His pause brims with scorn. -That is rather the point.-
“Did he give a reason?” I say. How deep does Renaud’s petty go?
Numair’s offended air quote fingers are exaggerated—he’s regressing to Julietteisms. “He claimed you needed to walk off your temper.”
About middling then. Does a creature that age care if others perceive it as petty? It has nothing left to prove.
-It isn’t the first time,- Darkan adds.
-What?-
-The White. This is not the first time.-
-What?-
He laughs, and if he wasn’t in my head, it would chill me. Perhaps it should anyway. I feel nothing, and that is concerning. It should concern me I’m unconcerned about being unconcerned that I feel—
“Aerinne, are you listening?” I stare at Numair, hollowed out. He surveys me. “Are you alright?”
Do I look fucking alright? I must look disheveled, disoriented, tired. The bloody makeshift bandage on one hand, my discreetly thrifted heels dangling from the other. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t disintegrate his morale, so I say nothing at all.
I’ve learned I get better at that with practice.
-You should not lower yourself to coddle the puppy’s feelings. If he cannot endure what you can endure, he is useless to you.-
-What happened to “You are Lord. You protect those you rule or you are unworthy of their fealty.”- I retort in the prissiest, most insulting mental falsetto possible. -I pay attention. After the fact, but it still counts.-
-Please. It’s enabling his truly mind-numbing weakness in a fashion that never would be tolerated in Ninephe. All the other puppies would laugh at him, and then he would be dead.-
-What?-
His presence shuts down, and I turn my attention to Juliette, who jumps out after Numair.
“Félicitations,” she says. “You are now the darling of Everenne High Court gossip. I use the word darling loosely. . .but evidently it’s truthful enough. Huh. I think this is going to be one of those sucks to be you situations.” She blinks wide blue eyes at me. “Is it now High treason to admit I'm glad it's not me?”
She thinks she's funny. I fix a flat face on her, but Baba’s expression is his version of livid as he steps down from the carriage next—drawn brows and a slight frown.
I sink into a bow deeper than I would ever give the Prince. “I apologize, Lord. I intended to. . .” Realms, what use is a halfling who can’t lie “. . .something came over me.”
“We will handle this,” he says. “The way it ended isn’t ideal, but not insurmountable. The caste will take their cue from the Prince.”
“Which?”
He gives me a look—that’s what he calls a stalling question, and we’re only supposed to use that tactic if the stall isn’t obvious. Unless you want your opponent to know you are stalling. Or, if you want them to know that you know that they know you are pretending to stall. Something about situational awareness?
“The only one that matters, Nyawira.”
“Was he angry?”
-Oh, Aerinne. Angry? My sweet halfling.-
My father gives me an odd look, half worried, half assessing. “Not at all. I would say he was pleased, and that brings its own host of complications. I’d be more comfortable with anger, if I had my choice, but choice is a luxury when dealing with his kind.” He stops, modulates his tone. I wonder if he classifies my mother as one of those ‘kind.’ “I’ll consider our options and we will discuss how to proceed.”
Juliette stares at me, and I can tell she wishes she had a lollipop or a joint in her mouth. Her left hand keeps twitching. “What happened, Rinne?”
I shake my head.
Baba may understand, at least a little, but the others don’t. They only see that I stabbed Renaud in blatant rejection of a rude sexual proposition in front of the Courts—and I’m only assuming they understood the subtext of that conversation; he was so smooth, so light-hearted, after all.
Feisty, hot-tempered, halfling Aerinne.
They don’t know the half of it. I made the decision on the walk home to say nothing. The full context will only anger them, and the last thing I need is a contingent of my fight now and figure out the consequences later relatives storming House Montague to challenge them to a duel for my honor. But mostly because they're restless and want a fight.
So much for a ceasefire. I have my doubts it will last past the Princes’ next crawl into a coffin century long nap. There are Fae rumored to drink blood, maybe that’s—
-Nyawira.- Darkan’s weary mental tone. -Control your mind.-
Over. Rated.
Baba rubs his forehead. “I will protect you as best I can. There are tools at my disposable but we are not quite at the point where an escalation of that fashion is the only option. We will wait. But, Nyawira wa Muriel, you must practice restraint, even in the face of gross provocation—especially from Renaud Gautier. You cannot challenge him in public. It’s against his nature to allow it—even when he’s clearly at fault—and however he chooses to respond, no one will censure him. His is the greater power.”
I finally find my voice. “This is an exploitative, corrupt system. Might makes right, always. I thought that’s why Maman left Ninephe.”
My father’s eyes express the long-suffering patience of a parent who must watch their child suffer.
“Do you think you will change the system by banging your head against its bloody walls? I’ve taught you better than that. You must persuade it to change itself, because that is in its best interest. You cannot do that if you refuse to learn the rules and navigate the board.”
-Listen to your father, Aerinne. He has never been a fool.-
“Danon isn’t here, and I’m only human. You’re all that’s left of the Kuthliele bloodline.” He pauses. “I do what I can to support you, but if I’ve never acknowledged it before, let me do so now. It is support, Nyawira. You will be of an age soon where you will be expected to take the House if Danon doesn’t return.”
“I have a decade left, at least,” I say quietly. Setting aside the issues of Renaud and the Vow. And Danon.
He nods, this tall, elegant male with rich deep brown skin, draped in the cobalt cloak of our House. He should have been a king over mortals. He has the bearing for it. “A decade, if that. I am trying to give you all the time I can.”
The cruelty in our world galls. It excuses the toxic behavior of a handful of individuals because they are old, and powerful, and they can’t control themselves. . .but they have no trouble controlling everyone else.
I must take my place whether I want to or not. Without truly knowing if I’m any different than they.
I stare at the cold stones under my feet. My father is right. I can scream into the ether all I want about how none of this makes any sense, but no one will listen. The Fae only listen to power.
-Hmm. The politics in Everenne are refreshing. Like a late spring rest break.- He’s in his musing state now, and sometimes I just have to let him be. -It is really nothing so serious, Aerinne, to justify such angst. You are cutting teeth. You won’t experience skinned knees until your first foray into Ninephe. I can't decide if it puts you at a disadvantage, or if I have managed good parenting. . .I suppose there is something to be said for training wheels, if you're fortunate to be provided them.-
“Are the negotiations moving forward?” I ask.
“They are.” Baba shakes his head with a sigh. “We are in no better a position than we were— if there was any advantage to be gained from the Prince’s favor, it’s mitigated by the cost. But we are also in no worse.” His lips thin. “Don’t think I blame you. He knew full well the reaction he was courting. Maryam enjoyed those little games when she was bored as well, especially when I was younger and didn’t know as well how to. . .redirect her. They are cats, these old High Fae Lords.”
“Cats play with their food.” My voice is low, bitter, tired.
Baba’s expression smoothes, eyes hard. “It was not only you that one was testing, but I am no not-yet-thirty girl. I will not be so easy to bait. If he pushes, he’ll come to understand how it is I survived my wife, and his son.”
I blink. Juliette gives him a side-eye.
“One of these days, Baba, I want the real story of you and my mother. Not the version you give to a child.”
“In a few days, that story may become relevant. Your mother loved you beyond measure. Remember that.”
The real story is that bad then. It occurs to me that my father and I may soon have something unique in common. Relationships with the highest caste among my kind, barring an Ancient.
The approaching clop of hooves interrupts the conversation and we turn. I watch, still and stony as a royal messenger approaches.
He pulls up, buttons on silver-and-white livery winking under the moonlight, and dismounts, trotting toward me. It’s a little disturbing the messengers all seem to know my face—I’m not the only halfling in the damn city. I’m not even the only halfling in Faronne of my phenotype.
With a brisk, perfunctory but deep bow, he extends his arms to raise slightly above his bent head. Sitting flat on his palms is a small black box.
If a viper jumps out at me when I open it, I won’t be surprised. I barely restrain myself from snapping, “what is this,” because it’s obvious.
MF.
Conveniently, one of my favorite—but selectively utilized out of respect. . .fear. . .for my mother and aunts—American profanities.
And also, More Fuckery.
Not opening the box isn’t an option. I swipe the box from his hands, jaw clenched, and flip open the lid before I can remind myself why accepting presents from Fae Princes is a phenomenally poor idea.
And indeed, MF stares up at me in the form of a smug, bloody paring knife nestled in a bed of deep blue satin. Next to that paring knife is a clear glass vial about the length of my thumb, stoppered with silver and hung on a fine chain as it winks at me. The contents of the vial are some kind of deep red, almost black liquid.
. . .some kind. Suuure. I’m not slow. I’m dumbfounded.
I lift my head and glance at my father, who looks equally stymied if one knows what to look for in his expression.
Juliette’s voice drops. “Anyone want to bet whose blood that is.”
“What’s the bet?” Numair says.
“Not hers.”
He hums, then nods. “I’ll take it.”
-Gods of Otieno. When will this penance end.-
I inhale, let the breath out slowly, and begin to steel myself for battle. Again.
Lifting the vial off the satin, I shove the box underneath my arm and unstopper the glass, touching the open rim to the tip of my finger. I turn it upside down for a drop to rest on my skin before I restopper it.
I touch that tiny bit of blood to the tip of my tongue, my lids fluttering closed because that one bare drop is a lightning strike straight to my core. My veins clamor for more.
“Not mine,” I say, suppressing the shudder that rolls through me. This means that Prick has at least a vial’s worth of my blood in his possession, if not more. “His.” I know it. I know it the way I would know if it was mine.
Does he react to my blood the way I do his? Does he feel it digging talons in his bones?
-He feels it.- Darkan’s soft words are strained, but precise.
I look at the Lord of Faronne. “Why?”
“An offer to balance what he took perhaps,” Baba murmurs. The others are silent, their unease a scratchy shroud. “The Temthrennes abhor debt. Maryam was Temthrennes by rearing and allegiance, if not blood.”
I freeze, eyes wide. That is. . .the first time those words have come out of any person’s mouth.
-He is slipping, as we are. I do not think his slope is by intent, however.-
“My Lord?”
He gives me a keen glance. “Freely given blood. The gesture is one of control, and yet one of calculated vulnerability.” The cool curve of his lips is almost rueful. “There is never only one meaning, only one motivation, Nyawira. Remember this. Their motivations are birthed deep in the past, devastate the present, and span far into the future.”
-Otieno understands too much.-
The Prince holds my leash, but offers one in exchange. Or an illusion. There isn’t much I can do with his blood with my level of knowledge and power. Still.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” A response really isn’t required and I shift the box back into my hand and open it again, staring at the knife. “Normal suitors would send jewelry. He sends me the knife I stabbed us with and a vial of his blood.”
“He is High Fae, maitū.”
The Prince clearly doesn’t believe in timeouts, or breathers for much longer than it takes to walk a few city blocks.
The messenger shifts slightly to draw my attention and offers me an envelope stamped with a deep blue seal. I take it, pry the seal open and extract what I hope is an explanation for this madness—there goes that hope again—and skim the sentences.
Shaking my head, I unfold the second sheet of paper only to find an inked portrait of Renaud staring up at me, a casually scribbled note in the corner.
---For your dartboard, Malisse ni.
My lips twitch, which I take as a good sign I’m not yet broken if I can think even for a second that he is funny, and I try not to wonder how he knew I needed a fresh likeness of him to deface.
My father watches me, silent.
I look up at the messenger. “Tell the Prince I decline his—we’ll use the word invitation instead of the one I want—for after-dinner drinks this evening.” In his private quarters, and doesn’t that have my blood boiling again, for another reason. “Word it in whatever way won’t get you killed in a fit of temper.” To his credit, the messenger’s expression remains pleasant as he bows again.
Baba lifts a finger. “A moment please.” He takes the note and reads it with his usual grave attention to detail. “An outright refusal may not be wise.” He glances at the messenger again. “Are we keeping you from any further business tonight? Will it trouble you to wait awhile longer?”
The messenger bows, deeply. “I am at your disposal, Lord Etienne, Lady Aerinne.”
I rock back on my heels, wishing I had pockets in this dress. Or that I wasn’t wearing the dress at all. “Really. Interesting choice of—”
“The Prince is gracious. Wait here, please. I will write a response somewhat more congenial than my daughter’s. We will offer a more appropriate time and locale, with an escort as befits Lady Aerinne’s rank and status.” His eyes are agates. “Including the status he himself has conferred on her.”
Numair peers over his shoulder, frowns and gives my father a glare that, if he were anyone else, would have me drawing my dagger.
“You’re going to let her go? He forced her to protect herself, and she isn’t telling us everything that happened when they were alone.” His jaw ticks as Baba gives him a long, inscrutable look. “For that, we’re going to reward him with a counteroffer?”
“We wouldn’t have the rope to respond with a counteroffer if Renaud didn’t enjoy the cat-and-mouse game,” I say curtly. “The refusal is expected. He’ll court me in the Ninephene High caste custom, and those courtships are never short or simple.” I am still Muriel’s daughter. It buys me some leeway. Not enough, but some.
-Very, very good,- Darkan purrs. -Remember—you have always had everything you need.-
“How do you know that, Rinne?” Juliette asks.
I stop, stymied. “I. . . must have read it in a book?” Or Darkan’s info dump in the forest as he implies.
-They have those in Faronne House? Books, you say they are called?-
I ignore him. His approval always comes sandwiched between sarcasm these days.
He relents. -Your surmise is correct. This is one scenario in which your inability to sit still and read anything more in depth than an overdue invoice or alcohol content label doesn’t put you at a disadvantage. The way you did it a moment ago is faster, and offers nuance no one else in the city can teach you. Criticism,- he adds, -is your whetstone. You never have responded well to the opposite. There’s no challenge in approval for you. But Aerinne, I wouldn’t be yours if you weren’t capable of earning far more than mere approval.-
Juliette shakes her head. “Does anyone understand what he’s doing? None of his moves have made sense.”
“That’s only because we don’t know the endgame,” Numair says, stiff.
Baba understands—the nod to Kikuyu betrothal customs at dinner was clear enough, if only to us. But my father still doesn’t have all the pieces. None of them have all the pieces. Embriel’s death. The Vow. And now my accidental offer of blood. The sparked yevserra.
Before that, the first time I met Renaud’s eyes and the first shield of hatred in me broke, then reformed.
Aerinne, of the Prince.
The messenger bows again and retreats several feet to his horse to wait.
Baba kisses my cheek. “Get some rest, maitu,” he says, sounding distracted, his brow furrowed.
I watch his broad back, about to turn from him when he stops, and bows his head. Then turns back to me.
Baba does have the pieces.
The look on his face is one I have never seen, stripped of all his masks. Grim anguish, steely determination—echoes of me. The visceral pull to drag myself up from the abyss broken talon by broken talon.
The moments where I sink back down, and curl up in a ball to question my goal—then begin to crawl back up again.
“Lady Aerinne.”
My body turns towards him, forces my mind to still. Darkan’s low-level presence in me quiets, focuses. Waits.
“I am your father, and I have spoken to you as a father. I must force myself to speak to you as a man. A man who loved a High Lord, and gave her a daughter of my blood.” His mouth twists, before his face calms again. “You cannot out-strategize Renaud. He is a demi-god to his people, and the parents who spawned him are like deities themselves. This is not a game where the gritty underdog finds a chink in the giant’s armor and rents it open.
“This is not a Fae-tale. This is not. . .a romance. Though I hope there will be some of that for you.”
For once I can think nothing. No reflexive quip to shield a fracture in my mind. No bitter sneer about hope.
“Father.” I whisper the word. It’s almost a plea. I’m not the only silent one in the courtyard.
“The only lever you have against him is his feelings for you. The power he will allow you to negotiate.
“Until you are much older. Until you are much stronger. I will not be here, I will be centuries in my grave and my sister’s descendants still in your care. I hope.” He hesitates. “And your grandchildren at your side. You will have them, Rinne. He won’t allow you an empty womb. He loved his son, if I can think of no other redeeming quality. He loved his son. He will want to recreate him, and more, to insulate against inevitable loss.”
I suck in a breath and half bend from the blow of those words before I realize I've instinctively started to curl in on myself.
“He will want,” Otieno says quietly, “to resurrect Muriel.”
I know my father isn't trying to hurt me. I know my father isn't trying to blame me for Embriel, and so for Renaud’s future abuse.
I know my father isn’t telling me I’m simply a desperate replacement for Renaud’s slain heart-sister.
It still…hurts. I wrap a hand around my throat to keep the wounded sound from escaping and slowly straighten again. Numair steps close, pulling my back against his chest, his arm draped around my shoulders as he braces to hold my weight.
“Everything will be alright, Rinne,” he whispers.
I can't fathom that he believes that.
“Yes,” my father says. Not agreement with Numair. Acknowledging everything I thought he didn't know in that one word. “Actions always have consequences, even if the actions are just in Fae eyes.”
The sound escapes anyway.
Baba stops, jaw ticking, his face twisting with the effort…not to weep, I think. Another expression I recognize from my own face.
Darkan’s presence sharpens. He says nothing.
The Diplomat of Everenne’s gaze bores into mine once he’s composed again. “You will have that power, Aerinne Nyawira wa Muriel. But you must survive an Old One to claim it. You will not survive it unless you learn the gossamer dance of obedience and defiance. Hatred and sweetness. Ice and passion.”
“You want me to seduce him.”
“I want you to outlive him.”
He waits. I don’t respond.
“I considered if death would be kinder.” Something haggard flashes in his eyes, and for the first time I feel his mortal age despite his unlined face. “But I’m selfish. And you will not live if you don’t bend.”
I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry. I am only human, and we are only Faronne. Kuthliele may rise again, a royal line in its own right, but I don’t know. If Danon were here, if Maryam was alive—she is not.”
I force them open. “Lord—”
“I have weighed every option, envisioned every scenario. It’s why I can’t speak to you as a father. A father does not want for his daughter the pain I see coming for you at the hands of that. . .male. What I have already seen you suffer tonight, and he played with you in my face.” I flinch from the glimpse of rage. From my father. Not even when Maman died did I see this rage.
He stops, takes a moment, shunts it aside. Another mechanism I now realize I inherited from him. “But a man can warn another woman. The survivor of one Old One can inform the prey of another.”
Silence.
My father focuses a cold, even stare over my shoulder. I remember then—the messenger. He heard this all. He will most definitely report.
This speech isn't only for me.
What I don't know, is if this is a concession speech, or a glove thrown on the ground.
. . .Otieno turns, then disappears inside the house to pen his note.
My limbs tremble. . .. Doubtless it will be. . .faultlessly polite, and after tonight. . . exquisitely scathing.
Numair’s arm tightens.
“Rinne,” Juliette says softly, coming closer. No one is joking about the darling of High Court gossip now. Not even gallows humor.
I stop trying to think.
No one speaks. Not even Darkan.
I need a hard drink to numb pain past, present and future, and a dive into oblivion. Anything to stop the pounding of my heart and the straining in my blood, as if it’s reaching out to return to its Lord.
-He understands,- Darkan repeats softly, -far more than he should. Oh, Muriel.-