Page 39 of Heir to His Court

As soon as Faronne entered the forest clearing with the stone conference table, a tendril of anger so frozen I glimpsed frost on the trees closest to Renaud, entered my lungs. A swift glance at the Lords and courtiers present revealed disquiet deeper than the usual wariness required in the presence of an Old One whose stability was questionable.

If only they knew.

Several gazes turned to me, some blatant, others more subtle. They watched me, watched him, watched us, tension a thin film over a barely civilized gathering.

The tendril slithered inside and wound around my spine, and when I turned my head to meet the Prince’s gaze, the tendril bit down. Pain, sharp and intense. Like the slap the previous night.

My arm tensed, fingers flexing. Baba glanced at me, his expression unfaltering as he gently guided me forward. I remained quiet at his side as he spun his web of warmth and inclusion, cultivating allies and deflecting enemies as if we were all old friends here for a bit of debate on city planning.

The Prince stepped away from the shadow of the tree he’d been near and the Lords immediately turned, waiting upon him. He wore his white and gray robes still, his hair now a shining drape down his back, a red sash around his waist. Renaud’s beauty eclipsed us all, though if Muriel lived, she would have challenged him in that regard. No one had been more lovely than my mother.

But—I glanced at my father—in his youth, no one had wondered why a High Lord claimed Étienne. They’d wondered why she’d eventuallymarriedhim, but not why she’d desired him. Even now, the bloom of that youth gracefully faded, he shone.

Baba turned his head slightly, acknowledging my scrutiny, and pressed a kiss on my forehead. I smiled, then Renaud recaptured my attention.

I met moonstone eyes set in an expression as remote as the first day of his waking, and wondered if he planned for me to survive these final hours of negotiations. I was uncertain. This was not a male to throw a tantrum when enraged. His temper, unsheathed, would scythe into those who’d displeased him. . .and Numair stood at my back.

I should have left him at home.

Angling my head to Numair, I pressed my fingers against his wrist. He stepped close enough to read my lips.

“Be on your guard,” I said soundlessly. True fear bloomed in my stomach.

He stepped back into place, warning received, careful not to touch me. There would be consequences for the fun and games last night. Our exchange took barely three seconds but when I looked at Renaud again, there was a new hardness to his expression.

“Lord Étienne,” Baroun said, approaching, his voice so pleasant I narrowed my eyes, wondering if he was mocking my father.

He wore red silk, probably in nostalgic remembrance of the blood of Faronne, his wavy dark hair loose except for twin braids at his temples threaded with silver.

“Lord Baroun,” Baba said, evincing utter delight at the appearance of our—I ground my jaw—formerenemy.

He clasped Baroun on the shoulder, an entirely human gesture my father clung to despite it being utterly against Court protocol. I figured he did it on purpose, his own subtle return of mockery.

Then Baba’s tone quieted. “I have yet to express my sorrow in person for the death of Lord Tybien. It is a difficult thing, to lose one so young. Faronne mourns with you.”

I stared sightlessly at a vine of flowers crawling up a tree. I’d forgotten—red was Montague’s mourning color. I deserved the shame I felt. Not everything was an insult aimed at me.

“And you, Lady Aerinne?” Baroun said. “Do you also mourn with your House?”

“I tried to save him.” Someone who knew me less well might think my flat voice meant I didn’t care. Baroun knew me the way old enemies did—there was comfort in that.

“You did,” he said. “I am told you offered solace.”

“He still died.”

Baroun shrugged, a sliver of yellow in his eyes. “We all die, cousin.”

Numair stiffened.

Montague’s gaze shifted to him briefly, then back to me. “Have a care today.Ni seanos mashan. Hudar sara ni’affa.” He nodded at my father and moved away.

“What did he say?” Baba asked, voice pitched low, Numair listening.

I stared in his direction. “‘The oceans are dark and deep. A storm kisses the horizon.’ It’s a warning. A threat, when you alter the inflection.”

“It is not Ninephene.”

“It’s Avallonnian.”

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