Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

  Finally, when the sun is at its apex, blinding me through the open archways, she sheathes her blade.

  “Not bad.”

  I laugh, delirious, exhausted, and drunk on triumph.

  Not bad, from her, is the highest of praise.

  I smile on my way to bed, thinking I might just be a little insane.

  Screams and Salt

  “Nevlaria Bane.”

  Ignoring the few sniggers that never failed to follow my name, I rose to my feet, eyes forward, inexpressive as ever. But oh, by all the gods on Eartia and beyond, why me?

  Again.

  I wasn’t going to survive another humiliating presentation in front of the entire class. I was certain of it. At sixteen, I used to be a little dramatic like that.

  The Ivies, Thorns, Windersts, Briars, Wilds, and Grimdales—my peers, my cousins—would mock and disregard me for long after that, though. And I bore it well enough, all things considered.

  I was aware that my being called out was purposeful. Professor Hollowdale, our homeroom teacher, knew just what was wrong with me. If he was pushing me like this every week, it was because he’d been asked to. Ordered to.

  His superiors wanted to ensure I was well leashed, that I wouldn’t lash out under any circumstances.

  Hollowdale needn’t have bothered. I’d never risk the wrath of his boss. Even back then, I wasn’t stupid enough to defy the unseelie queen.

  So I stared on. When Hollowdale asked me to present my assignment, I produced a suitably weak, shapeless orb that earned me more derisive sneers from the back.

  I tonelessly stated, “I chose to form a MoonOrb today, as they have the ability to absorb excess magic. I figured it may prove useful if any of the other experiments go wrong.”

  The professor smiled at me briefly.

  It wasn’t unkind. Hollowdale wasn’t a bad person as such. I had to remember that when I was tempted to kill him.

  MoonOrbs were the tools of children, one of the first tricks the fae learned when our magic manifested.

  It was weak. Like me. Like the powerless creature I’d been turned into.

  “Very well. If you’d place it on my desk, please. You’ll get a B minus for your efforts today. Sylph Thorn.”

  Sylph summoned a WaterOrb, and three foot-long lake dragons burst out of it, gently gliding around the sphere. The class gasped in awe. I closed my eyes and breathed, controlling the wave of anger and resentment.

  I had sea blood—I could manage a WaterOrb easily enough.

  I didn’t need to ace my classes. I didn’t need admiration. I just hated having to hide. It wasn’t in my nature. Nor was submission.

  “You will make yourself invisible. You will make yourself irrelevant. I never want to hear anyone say your name in praise. If you fail in this, I will destroy you.”

  These words were planted in my mind. They’d only been uttered once, ten years ago, and still I heard them in my dreams and nightmares. I heard them when I breathed, when I bathed, and most of all, when I was humiliated.

  I had a choice. I could be no one, or I could die.

  I wished for a distraction from this. Something, anything had to happen. Before I lost it.

  Just then, I turned before anyone else registered a change. An instinct deep inside me, not dissimilar to fear—only stronger—gnawed at my very soul.

  He appeared at the door seconds later.

  An older boy, almost a man. The fae’s aging process can differ from race to race, but the high fae tend to reach maturity around the same time as humans. At sixteen, I—hopefully—wasn’t done growing yet, but he was close to adulthood. It wasn’t the only way he didn’t fit in. His clothes were plain, even plainer than mine, although my family was poorer than anyone else admitted in this school. I wore a simple cloak and my black dress had seen better days, but they were silk and wool. His shirt was rough cotton, loose on him and faded gray, as if it had been handed down. His brown breeches were in a worse state.

  What stood out to me wasn’t the grubby attire, or the age.

  It was his eyes. His presence. His aura.

  I’d never felt a strength like this. Not once. Not even in the presence of the unseelie queen.

  High Queen Morgana had power. She had all the kings and queens of the lower courts bowing down to her, she had terrifying familiars who’d tear anyone apart for looking at her with scorn, she had knights and sorcerers, and she had the crown that demanded as much respect as everything else. Removing all that, she was just one gentry, one woman. Beautiful and terrible and cruel, but no more than one person.

  The boy? He was power.

  This stranger could kill me. He could kill us all, I was certain of it.

  For the first time in my life, I smiled at school.

  “Sir Hollowdale.” The headmistress, Fera Weathergreen, stepped close to the stranger, as if she didn’t suspect he could snap at any moment and bite off her head like a feral beast.

  I would have cheered him on.

  My eyes stayed on him as she addressed our tutor. “This bright young boy is Rystan Drusk, the transfer I mentioned.”

  “Ah! Of course. Find yourself a seat, Mr. Drusk. Class, I trust you’ll take care of our new student.”

  Sylph and the rest of the royals exchanged a glance. Oh, yeah, they’ll welcome him. Bullying newbies is one of their favorite pastimes.

  I smiled, guessing it would be fun to watch.

  “Vlari.”

  I frown. No one called me that at school.

  “Vlari!”

  Cold. I feel cold. Why? It had happened in the summer.

  “Nevlaria Bane, wake up this instant!”

  A drop of water falls on my forehead, and I blink. My eyes finally open, to stare right at a fist sized hole in the ceiling.

  Ugh.

  I know better than to fall asleep on the left side of my bed. The roof has been leaking for about a year in that spot.

  My father’s shaking my shoulders, his claws digging into my arms. Through my blurred vision, I see fear in his features.

  Oh.

  I’d been asleep, and it had just been a dream. Well, a memory of that day. It’s been what, fifty-some years? And I can’t say I’d wasted a second of my life thinking about that day until now.

  School had mostly sucked, it was over, the end.

  As I relax, I feel waves of power radiating out of me. No wonder my father is agitated. I bite my lower lip and call my energy back where it belongs, sealed inside of me.

  He sighs in relief, and hugs me close. “You wouldn’t wake up. I tried the spells, and they didn’t work.”

  I can practically taste terror on his skin.

  What have I done this time?

  My head’s thumping, but with some effort, I sit up in my canopy bed and look down to the wooden floor. The circle I’d traced with salt all around me has been broken, as if a gust of wind had shoved it out of the way. Except my ornate window’s closed, and the direction of the blast shows it’s been pushed out from the inside.

  From me.

  Double crap.

  I groan. “Tell me I didn’t kill anything?”

  He winces and I sigh.

  “Nothing of importance, blossom.” I can tell he’s lying, but I choose not to ask.

  The servants, the knights, and my family know better than to go unprotected while I sleep. They have wreaths of spelled thorns around their hands and neck, or enchanted jewels keeping them safe from my capricious fits. That doesn’t mean I can’t harm other things. Flowers, songbirds, wandering hobs and imps.

  I should push, but I let him soothe me, caressing my back from the neck to the shoulder blades. The skin is always sensitive there, for those of us who grow wings.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he murmurs.

  I don’t have an answer. “I would if I had any clue.”

  I’d used my powers, that much is evident, but to what end? Did I just lash out for the hell of it, kill something because I could? No
t improbable, though I should be beyond that. At sixty-nine, I’m hardly an emotional teen anymore. Among my kind, I’m considered an adult. Not a wise or an ancient one, but an adult nonetheless.

  My father narrows his eyes. I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me. Nero Bane is many things; stupid isn’t one of them. He knows I have at least part of the answer. I should share my dream.

  I don’t want to.

  I can’t tell why. It just seems private.

  A knock at my door interrupts whatever lecture he’s about to give me. I have half a second to be relieved. Then, our one sprite servant announces that I’ve been summoned to court at once.

  I can’t say I’m surprised.

  The unseelie queen knows everything. She’s already heard about my transgression. Whatever spies she’s planted in our midst have whispered in her ears. My using my power without her consent, outside of her control, will not be unpunished.

  Which means that despite being careful for years, making myself insignificant to avoid her notice, I might die before the night is through.

  I manage a weak smile to reassure my father. “It might be all right.”

  It likely wouldn’t.

  Property of the Crown

  Tenebris is a kingdom of night; the fae of our realm rise with dawn and fade alongside darkness.

  I’m supposed to start working at eight, in two hours, and on foot, the path leading from my parents’ domain to the House of Frost in the Court of Storm takes almost as long. On an ordinary day, I would have made it on time, but there is not a single doubt in my mind that I should prioritize the queen’s summons over trivial things such as earning my bread and butter. Punctuality has been drilled into me by my father as one of the simplest courtesies I should observe.

  My mother had other teachings. Today, I am her child. I have to be. She’s the only one of them who survived the Wicked Court. Assuming her careless, free spirit is a necessity. Yet, I can’t help frowning, disappointed, frustrated with myself. “Can you send Lady Frost a note?”

  My father nods, already on his way to his study on the other side of the house.

  I alone reside in the east wing, for everyone’s safety.

  I hear his voice down the corridor. “And I’ll ask Ciera to attend to you.”

  I don’t realize my shoulders were so tense until they relax.

  When I was younger, our sprites and imps helped me. Now, rushed as I often am, I’ve learned to take care of myself. Unlike many women of my station, I can dress myself just fine—even when I have to wear more elaborate clothing requiring corsets and other torture devices—but today, I welcome the assistance.

  After the barest of ablutions, I slide into the fanciest of my work attire, a jade velvet frock with lace sleeves, and I rifle through my jewelry box to find a suitable trinket to slide on my wrists or fingers. I have many jewels, but most are made of broken glass, old oxidized coins, random shiny things I’ve found during my walks and gathered like a crow. Junk. At the high court, they’d be seen as nothing short of an insult.

  I feel my mother’s presence long before she enters my room. Her soft hand clasps my wrist, and cold metal catches my attention. I look down and smile, grateful. She’s closed her golden cuff bracelet to my left arm, and she’s sliding a number of rings on my bare fingers.

  We are poor. We aren’t permitted to look like it though. Not in the high court.

  “You’re a life saver.”

  “Oh, daughter mine. No amount of baubles will be enough to keep that pretty neck in one piece, if you go anywhere near the queen with hair like that.”

  Fae cannot lie. Most do so anyway; we cheat and deceive as well as our nature allows. Not my mother. Ciera Oberon Bane says things as they pass through her mind, without a care for what her audience makes of it. Some call her honest, others cruel. I know she can be both.

  She’s right, of course; my hair is a mess.

  I’m not allowed to cut it without the queen’s blessing, and she’s never given it, if only to inconvenience me. The long tresses now reach the floor, when they’re loose. Not one to pamper myself, I don’t give it the care it desperately needs. On a normal day, I twist it into one braid and pin it at the back of my head, hiding the damaged ends in the knot. The hairstyle has another advantage: it conceals the shade of my mane at its tips.

  Purple. If the folk saw it, it would spell trouble.

  Rare are those who possess hair of that shade, and all belong to our line.

  The royals like to pretend that I—and the rest of my family—don’t exist. We’re mistakes they’re more than happy to forget. And everything about me allows them to do so. I am short. My eyes are sky blue, the one physical attribute I have inherited from my father. I have no evident mark of royalty; indeed, at a glance one might mistake me for a pixie, if not a common sprite, without a drop of gentry blood.

  At the roots, and for a good three feet, my hair is silver-gray, washed out, without shine or thickness. It only turns purple toward the ends. The deepest amethyst, like the queen’s eyes and nails. Like the royal blood. It marks me as one of them.

  I hide it for their benefit as well as mine, on a daily basis.

  There will be no hiding it today. The queen doesn’t approve of much when it comes to me, but my hair is the one thing she’s ever complimented.

  After messing up during my sleep today, I need all the help I can get. If she’s of a mind to destroy me, a reminder that I am family cannot go amiss.

  My mother is magic. Her control over water has never earned her much approval from anyone; she’s too weak to use her skill as a weapon of any consequence. Even so, it does wonders to my poor, dry hair, taming it into soft silky waves. Every time she cares for the mane, murmuring songs I remember from far away as she brushes it, I tell myself I should ask her to do it with some regularity. I wouldn’t mind having nice hair, even if it’s in braids. I wouldn’t mind being cared for like this.

  Regrettably, neither she nor I have time for frivolities. Tomorrow, I will return to my routine and forget it again.

  As long as I am alive then.

  I close my eyes, biting back all trace of rage or ire I might harbor in my heart. They’re natural, for me more than most. But they’re also my worst enemies.

  I have to be no one. I have to be nothing. I have to be weak and emotionless when I face my maternal grandmother.

  We live a three-hour walk from Hardrock. This morning, I had time enough to spare, but now, I ride one of the few horses we keep at the stable.

  I take the cobbled avenue this time, unwilling to risk any delay. As I approach the imposing fortress carved into the heart of the Shadow Peaks, I pass magnificent beasts with coats of night sky, silver horses with eagle wings, and the odd unicorn, though they’re known to be wilder than the fae.

  I have Bess. She’s brown and white and silly. We stop whenever she feels like it, she often trots backward, and I know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to eat or drink.

  I dismount Bess a little way away from the entrance, near a mountain stream.

  “Spend your night as you wish, but don’t wander too far.” None of this sounds like an order, because it isn’t. We have an understanding. She doesn’t test my patience and I don’t interfere with her life more than I ought to.

  I walk up to the entrance of the royal stronghold, the hood of my cape low on my head. To get to the fortress, we have to cross a moat dug so deep there’s nothing to see at the bottom except a thick mist. When the mood strikes, the queen opts to tie the wings of a fae and throw them up from the highest tower, instead of cutting off their head. The folk are easily irked, and easily cruel.

  There are four gates in front of the bridge leading up to the fortress. A long line of folk waiting for their turns to be allowed in bars the first. They’ll be given a chance to enter if and only if the queen wishes to see them tonight. More than often, she doesn’t. The second is less crowded, reserved for those who have an actual reason for being her
e—an appointment, or an invitation. It’s wide open, though somber goblin guards look down, their mouths peeled away from their pointed teeth, tasting the air as if they can sniff a drop of treason. The third, closed, is the gate of courtiers. They can enter as they please, though it’s also guarded. The goblins on that side seem bored, half asleep.

  The last gate might have appeared like an empty archway to an undiscerning eye, but I see waves of strange colors flowing around it, emitting an energy that calls to me. There’s no guard; none are needed. Anyone who attempts to cross those gates without having the right to will suffer the most excruciating curses and die before they manage a couple of steps. An old spell, older than any living folk, I think.

  I head to that gate and cross it, ignoring the eyes trailing me. As I pass through the energy barrier, a burst of unnatural wind pushes my hood off my hair. I can feel my face heat as I lift it down over my eyes again.

  Another reminder I am royal after all.

  The courtiers on the bridge slow down and part ways to let me pass, eyes trained on me. They’re trying to place me. There are a few of us; I could be any of my cousins, any of my aunts. But I am shorter. They don’t recognize me. Those who’ve seen me don’t remember me.

  I am no one.

  The waves of resentment and disdain rising inside me come at no surprise. I hate and despise them all; the worms that follow wherever their queen leads. They’d do anything for the favor of royals. They’re sheep.

  I’m too quick to rise to anger, especially here. And I can’t afford to be.

  I keep my eyes forward, heading straight for the Hall of Crowns, where I’ve been summoned.

  When I reach the doors, I finally remove the hood, letting it fall on my shoulders. I plaster the best smile I can manage on my face, and I clear my throat, turning to the stunned knight posted in front of the hall.