The Prince produced a long white ribbon from somewhere and lifted my least injured arm, wrapping it around the wrist. His fingertips brushed up my arm and my pain resided, even the ache of the burn.
“It's third degree,” he said. “I will send Ishaan to you. Do not refuse him.”
He turned and walked back toward his palace.
Numair jogged towards me, panting. “What happened?”
“I think—I think we negotiated a ceasefire.”
I wondered why I felt so sick to my stomach, and collapsed.
ChapterEleven
Survivors gathered in Faronne's dining war room, including a pale Manuelle, and Louvenia.
The Prince's odd not-quite-healing power enabled us to once more save those who might have died from blood loss. Too many of us were young, our immortality not yet set in our bones.
A cloaked male arrived, demanded access to me, and healed my burn before leaving. He'd refused to treat anyone else, though my impression was that decision was not out of malice.
High Lords Wyvenne and Ramonne watched me, questions in their gazes.
“That,” Ramonne said, her black eyes glinting with mischief, a macabre smile on her full red lips, “was an interesting failure. We lived.”
Tereille, walking past, gave her a squinty eyed look as if that was too much positivity for even him.
“You may want to leave town for a while,” I told Wyvenne. “The Prince indicated a desire to speak with you regarding your creatures.”
Wyvenne narrowed his mossy eyes but said nothing.
Ramonne looked thoughtful. “How long is the arm that rules? And now we must decide whether to accept the white flag, or if it is a ploy.”
“I doubt it,” I said. Exhaustion weighed my body down, and too many thoughts swirled in my mind, but with certainty, I knew the Prince had meant his word. “He wants peace. He could have slaughtered us off and been home in time for an early dinner.”
We erupted into argument.
Not everyone wanted a cessation of hostilities, and those of us who did saw no path towards it and feared a scheme.
I almost couldn’t believe we were still having this argument. Had we learned nothing in the last several hours?
“Nora?” I asked during a pause in the arguing. She'd slipped into the room, and I'd been watching her face.
“An Old One's definition of establishing peace is simply to crush everyone under their heels and start over with fresh stock,” she said, as she often had before. “Be wary. But negotiate in good faith.”
Baba stood. “If Prince Renaud is sincere, House Faronne will accept the white flag. We will not fault any House that chooses to wait and observe.”
“It won't work if we aren't all at the table,” Wyvenne growled. “If Faronne goes, so will we.” He slanted his gaze at me. “If the Prince wants something from you, Lady Aerinne, I advise you tread carefully. He didn't offer that flag to us.”
I nodded. Peace was the right decision. I'd tell myself that until I believed it, so my throat didn't strangle on a lie when I spoke to my people.
“I do hope you plan to punish Sivenne,” Ramonne said, her eyes lidded. “Though such plans might need to play out on a different battlefield.”
I made a face, though I had enough dignity not to gag.
Ramonne noticed, of course. “I think your days of avoiding the Low Court, perhaps even the High, are coming to a close, Lady Aerinne.”
I left the room when the meeting closed, needing a few moments of quiet, but I turned when I heard ponderous footsteps behind me. Baba approached and leaned down to kiss my forehead. His hands settled on my shoulders.
“Daughter, every time you leave to fight, I lose another one of my lives,” he said, slipping into Kikuyu.
