Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

  The animal’s golden ears are flat, and it recoils in fear. It ignores me, though I'm right next to it. The vulpine’s eyes are fixed on the horse closing in between the trees, moving like a shadow. A colossal rider dressed in black mounts it.

  The most notable thing about the rider would be—according to many—that it doesn't have a head. I would argue that the whip he's holding, made of a spine, is equally terrifying. I don’t think it’s given nearly enough credit in the descriptions I read back in my school days.

  The dullahan's horse launches. I hold my palm, still filled with energy, between myself and the creature, pushing as much magic as I can muster away from me. Strands of light gather in my hand, and explode in a burst, blinding it.

  It is never natural for me to give magic. I prefer to take it. But a headless huntsman won't be spooked by darkness; what horrifies the true monsters of this world is receiving healing energy, hence why they live in the night, avoiding the sun and all its light. I suspect that if I were to entirely heal it, it might just end up being a regular headless corpse.

  The dullahan screeches, its horse bucking. Oh, it's pissed. Thankfully, it's also not able to run me—or the confused wyrfox—down, at the moment.

  “Go. Back up the tree. And stay up there, you idiot.”

  Some fae can charm any animal, whispering sweet things in the ears of horses, dogs, and even grants. I'm most definitely not one of them. Even the tamest of horses at home stubbornly ignores every one of my commands. But the wyrfox isn't as stupid as I thought it might be; it climbs up the tree, slipping out of view, to safety.

  I don't attempt to follow it. Down here, we had a truce of sorts while facing the dangers of the forest, but back in the trees, I am a snack.

  So, I run on foot, reminding myself to take at least two pouches of salt next time I’m foolish enough to return to the Murkwood.

  I emerge from the woods with a well-deserved limp. It'll get better soon enough—one of the perks of my kind. The bigger concern is the claw that pierced my skin when the wyr got to my cuffs. If it's old enough to be poisonous, I may be in trouble.

  I ignore it for now. I can't do anything until I get home.

  Once, Tenebris was divided in eight mighty courts, ruled by their kings and queens, then Nyx conquered them all. The lower courts—Stars, Storm, Silt, Irchor, Stone, Ash, and Mist—have retained their respective rulers, but all answer to the high court. Settled in the heart of the eastern mountains, it used to be called the Court of Wind. Now it's the Wicked Court, home to High Queen Morgana Lilwreath, Nyx's great-granddaughter.

  The gentry can live forever, so one might have thought that a mere twelve hundred years after her conquest of the lower courts, Nyx would still sit upon her throne, but that was underestimating how bloodthirsty our kind can be, particularly when bored. Not one of our high queens has ruled more than three hundred years. To me, that makes the job particularly unappealing, yet there's always a fool willing to do it.

  The Murkwood is north of the Wicked Court. The great palace carved inside rock and mountain stone never fails to exert a grimace from me when I approach. I hate everything about this place. Everything except, perhaps, its beauty. The fine, arched high columns, sculptures of the Old Folk, the slender shafts of the crossing tower carved in mountain stone, I can admire. Everything else about the court is derivative.

  At the foot of the chain of Shadow Peaks lies Hardrock, the greatest fae city in Tenebris, and therefore, in the world. The immortals of Álfheimr have attempted to build some sort of empire, or so I’m told, but it is well known that the fae territories are superior to the rest of our continent. Our magic feeds the land itself.

  The seelie kingdoms up north are still divided into minor courts, as we were before the days of Nyx. I understand that each of their kingdoms has its own settlement, but here, everything worth mentioning has been concentrated in Hardrock.

  I fasten my leather hood around my hair, and make my way through the familiar paths. The roads are grass and moss, littered with groves and rivers. Even in our cities, we fae do not fare well away from nature. Farther up, closer to the queen's keep, there’s a wide cobbled avenue for carriages and horses. The lords, ladies, kings, queens, and rich gentry of all Tenebris own manors either side of that avenue. Most use them occasionally, when attending revels at court. Others live here—the advisors to the queen, the courtiers who don’t know the world outside of Hardrock. I try not to judge them. My own mother had been one of them, once.

  I willfully avoid that path, though it might have been faster to reach the Light Market.

  The market is south of the city, close to the Arm of Sea Harbor, where goods arrive at every time of night or day. It's so large, I used to get lost as a girl. Now, I know it better than the woods surrounding my parents' estate. Here, in the midst of chaos, where no one matters, I feel at home.

  There's a very proper market somewhere in the loftier neighborhood, I'm told. I'd have nothing to do there. In the Light Market, one can find everything they want—sorcerers’ staffs, enchanted jewels, cursed blades, sprites in search of a new household, brides, even human servants, for those who like to buy those instead of proper staff.

  I grimace, seeing just such a trade take place in the main square. A different merchant gets to present their wares every night. I arrive late, and there’s only three products left on the stage: two golden-skinned, strong, shirtless men, who look so alike they must be brothers, and a pale girl almost as short as me adorned with an indecent amount of bosom, proudly displayed in flimsy red silk clashing with her black curls.

  The crowd is wild, bidding bags of coins for the three mortals, though they’ll fade away in the blink of an eye.

  Owning humans is a practice I can’t condone. However plain and short-lived, they look and think too much like us to treat them like mere dogs or horses. I suppose that’s why some fae relish making them heel. I don’t see the point in bragging of holding power over such pitiful creatures.

  They have their uses, though. A child of a human and a fae has the characteristic of a full-fledged fae, no doubt because their blood runs so weak. And their reproduction rate is much higher than that of our kind. Why, in a short decade, a mortal woman could birth ten infants—even, I think, ten at once. Fae are lucky to be blessed with more than one per century, if that.

  Many heirless lords breed with humans to strengthen their bloodlines. The crown also sends knights to acquire children from the mortal realm once every century; the parentless, the poor starving urchins, the lost, those whose family sell or bargain.

  I know that in some courts, they lure the comeliest maidens and send them back with pockets full of gold and faerie children in their bellies. Others keep them for a year and a day.

  The children reared in the mortal world always end up seeking out the folk when they grow older. Blood calls to blood, when the blood is strong enough.

  The seelie are rumored to trade changelings for human children that they raised in their court and married.

  All this, I understand.

  Human servants, not so much.

  They’re too awkward and untalented. Too slow and weak to be useful for anything other than breeding.

  That may be why they’re so coveted today. The men will plant their seed in fae ladies, and the girl will bear her master’s child. That’d explain their manner of dress. I hope their seller thought to charm them to ensure they didn’t die of cold, at least.

  I take comfort in the knowledge that none of them would be here, had they not frittered away their freedom in a bargain. Although, our kind is known for tricking mortals into agreeing to what they don’t understand, so the bargain may not have been fair.

  What do I know? Perhaps they want to be here. Perhaps they’d like a faerie lover. I’ve been to Mithgarth, watching mortals from the shadows. They talk about us around bonfires, and while some shudder at the mention of the fae, others sigh wistfully and whisper that they wouldn’t mind a wild night in the wood
s.

  On closer inspection, I don’t detect fear or displeasure from any of them. The men are smiling at the crowd, flexing their muscles. The dark-haired girl looks like she could be close to me in age; I stopped growing in my twentieth year, so that doesn’t mean much.

  They are no victim, and I, not a savior.

  I doubt my assistance would be needed, if I could give it. And I can’t. I’m too poor to buy them, powerless to stop the auction, powerless to help. I hate nothing more than feeling powerless, so I walk away.

  My path takes me through the food stalls. Though most are closed this late in the night or early in the day, I still smell delicacies from every corner of Álfheimr. In the row of silks, there’s cloth made by the elves. My favorite permanent stalls are in the row of steel, where we can find anything metal—enchanted jewels, charmed mirrors, and swords crafted by dwarves. According to the merchants. Most of them are charlatans, trying to pass horse-piss water as a remedy.

  Catching the first rays of sunlight in the distance, I rush past all that and directly make my way to Khia's stand. The salamander is packing up shop.

  I place my loot on the empty table between her and me, leaning in.

  “One cloak, freshly obtained, as agreed.”

  Her eyes widen. Then I see her gaze dart west, where our sun rises every morning. Her lips purse. She knows I'm on time—barely, but on time nonetheless.

  "How did you get this?"

  I grin, giving no response. I sometimes ask myself what my acquaintances think of me. Am I a thief in their mind, or a broker, simply arranging exchanges between one source and the next for a price?

  “I believe you owe me an oath.”

  She snorts, taking a little round piece of glass and placing it in front of her left eye to inspect the cloak—no doubt hoping for a defect that would mean she can start negotiating the price.

  I try to keep my expression bland, though I have no idea whether there might be a wyrclaw tear somewhere.

  “Mh.” She’s come up empty of protest. “All right. What do you really want?”

  As if she didn’t know. “Your oath.”

  She narrows her eyes, calculating.

  “Your oath, or give me my cloak back."

  The round little lady keeps pushing. “Catching a shade is impossible, especially for a wee thing like you. They're too fast. Who did you take it from?”

  I sigh, irked now. “Your oath, Khia.”

  “If someone comes back for it—”

  “Has anyone ever come for anything I've given you?”

  She might not understand why, or how, but she knows I only deliver authenticity—and that, unlike many of her suppliers, I don't lead anyone crying thief at her stall.

  “Fine, then. You have my oath,” she grouses. I remain silent. She knows she needs to say the words. "Vlari, daughter of Mist, I swear to grant you one favor, should it be in my ability. I will obey your word until my debt is paid. Happy?"

  I am. I really am.

  But letting people know what matters to me is a weakness.

  I have enough of those.

  I point to the bag already loaded on her puck assistant. "Do you mind if I buy some starnuts before you pack up? They’re just delicious.”

  I don’t tell her nothing could sate me more than knowing she owes me.

  Blood of the Heirs

  By the time I make it home, my arm is throbbing. I feel faint, unsteady on my feet. There's no longer any skepticism as to whether the wyr was old enough to poison me. I mutter, cursing it—and myself, for helping it escape the headless huntsman.

  The gentry of the folk don't get sick that easily—it takes spells and curses specifically made to weaken them. One of the many reasons why they're considered the superior race among the fae. They're also immortal, and better at magic than the rest of our kind.

  My mother is a pure gentry; her lineage couldn't be superior.

  My father, not so much. A common fae without any title, he has some sea blood from a nokk ancestor, I think, and there’s plenty of sprite in him. Most sprites are common servants, when they wish to be useful, wicked ruffians when they don’t. The only distinguished heritage he can boast of is that of his mother, a pixie of the seelie courts.

  Her kind is known for their deviousness and their skills in the art of war. Like the selkies of the Sea Lands and the salamanders of the Court of Ash, they’re almost as respected as the gentry.

  While a child of a mortal and a fae is a full fae, those hailing from two different fae families tend to blend the attributes of both—hence why breeding with a lesser fae is more frowned upon than taking human partners, among the gentry. I have my father’s weaknesses, hence my current predicament. Common fae don't tend to be immune to poisons or venoms.

  Contrary to popular belief, I'm not ashamed of my legacy. No one who’s ever met my grandmother would say that my father cursed me with weakness. His blood is a gift, just as well as my mother’s.

  For all that, I must admit, being sick has never been my favorite thing.

  At least I cannot die of it. It’ll pass eventually.

  I drag my feet into the hall of our keep.

  The Court of Mist has long ceased to function like a proper kingdom; my parents don’t even hold the title of king and queen. The castle is in a sorry state, some parts of it in ruin. But it is home.

  The carved white stone arches and massive, dusty halls darkened by ornate windows are part of me. I wouldn’t exchange its drafts and mold for all the gleaming palaces in Álfheimr.

  Hearing the distinctly faint sound of heels brush the floor from above, I straighten up, masking any trace of pain and weakness from my face. Only one person in this keep moves so quietly, like a shadow, and she will not take kindly to the state I’m in, if she discovers it.

  Meda appears on the first floor, staring me down.

  I tower over the woman in front of me by nigh on two feet, but when she glares at me, I shiver.

  "I can explain,” I blurt out.

  "Can you?" My grandmother's quiet, melodious voice is a thing of nightmares.

  Meda came to live with us as soon as I was done with school, some forty years ago. I’m her one grandchild, and she wanted to train me up.

  She hasn’t left since. Part of me wonders whether she was bored in the seelie realm. It could just be because she doesn’t think my training is up to par yet.

  She's quite the beauty, with her thick dark locks, so unlike mine. She wears a gown light as air, green like her eyes. She's in her three hundredth year, I think. It's hard to say. The pixie blood in her veins will always keep her youthful—even more so than the gentry.

  Gentries age until they’ve grown into themselves; sometimes in their thirtieth or fortieth year, seldom earlier. I owe her my youthful appearance as well as my diminutive height.

  In a few decades, I’ll be able to make myself look taller, smaller, younger when I wish. I don’t think I’ll be able to age myself, even then.

  I’m normally rather skilled in talking my way out of trouble, but the pain and the venom have dulled my wits. I can only manage to chatter nervously. “I was in the woods. There was a fox, and a headless—”

  “In which woods, pray? I do not think I’ve seen foxes here.”

  I'm in trouble. A fool could ascertain as much.

  “I know you like foxes, Meda. You wouldn't have wanted me to hurt it.” That sounds reasonable. Flattering, even. She might fall for it. “So, to spare it—”

  “You got careless. You let a lesser being, a mere animal, wound you. And you worried your mother by coming home later than you said you would.”

  I wince. Grandmother Meda is ridiculously fond of my mother; I fancy she likes her better than her own son—and definitely better than me.

  “I heard there were less than a dozen wyrfoxes left in our realm; I simply tried to—”

  “Ah. You were in the Murkwood, then. Interesting.”

  I bite my lips. As the wyr are wild creatures,
they prefer to be close to their brethren in the north. She was letting me talk to give away what I had been up to, and it was working.

  I decide to blame it on my increasingly throbbing headache. It had been years since I'd fallen for her simpler tricks.

  “I just need to sleep it off. I'll be fine.”

  The air crackles, and I don't have time to blink before Meda launches herself at me. It’s the second time I’ve been attacked tonight. This time I don't hesitate. My leather coat is on the polished floor, and I have my iron sword in one hand, a silver dagger in the other, holding them both firmly between myself and the scariest woman I know.

  She's moving so fast I can barely detect her. There’s little hope of anticipating her moves, yet I must try. Such are the rules of her game. I can manage the impossible, or I can bleed out on the polar flooring.

  I stop paying attention to what my eyes tell me and allow myself to feel. Feel the pixie—her heart, her mind, her blade. My sword crashes against hers. I breathe out. Now that she's at a standstill, I see she's uncovered her wings. Delicate, diaphanous membranes, like a bright butterfly. Black and blue, they're the most beautiful wings I've seen in all my sixty-nine years.

  “You came back wounded, Nevlaria.” Meda snarls. “That means you need further training.”

  I'm in a world of trouble.

  Pixies are naturally light and fast; using their tiny, light wings, they can fly at a speed unmatched by any other fae, which renders their fighting style deadly to even the strongest gentry. No one can maintain a superior speed for long, but a few minutes is enough to destroy whatever stands in their way.

  My wings aren’t nearly as fast as hers, but I unfurl them anyway, tearing the back of yet another linen shirt. I cannot win against her, but I can prevent her from beating me into a pulp if I fight fire with fire, like my life is on the line.

  For the first time, I think that Khia's oath wasn't worth it after all.

  I train. All morning, I train, right there in the main hall. Those among our household up so late go through great lengths to avoid us, taking longwinded passageways. She slices my limbs and kicks my stomach, punches my face. I manage to land two blows.