Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

He doesn’t seem to have any problem placing me. He’s looking at me as if I am a shocking thing. Maybe I am.

  “Nevlaria, for the queen, at her request,” I tell him, with some authority.

  As if stung awake, he shakes his head and rushes to open the doors. I hear him whisper to the master of ceremony on the other side. Then the sound of a wood staff hitting the paved marble floor three times stops all conversation.

  “Your queen would like her privacy,” says a voice I can’t quite place, though I’ve heard it before.

  I forget all things of the court, when I can manage to.

  The doors open again, wide this time, and stay that way, as a swarm of courtiers hasten to leave before the queen grows impatient with them. Her orders are carried out with alacrity.

  I wonder what she’s done to deserve such obedience, such respect. Then, I remember how fast I’ve rearranged my life today, to get here as soon as possible, and I have my answer.

  She’s earned it through fear.

  When the hall is empty of all save for the two figures at the back of the great room, seated on two thrones atop a golden dais, and the seven animals at their feet, I am announced.

  Morgana could receive me in a private chamber, rather than empty the heart of the court to allow us privacy, but she likes to tower over me from her place of power. To remind us both of where we stand.

  “Nevlaria Rose of the line of Oberon, daughter of Ciera, humbly presents herself to your majesties.” I make no mention of my father, or the queen. Morgana doesn’t recognize the Banes, and she doesn’t recognize me. I don’t get to claim her kinship. Instead, I name her consort, Alven Oberon, now at her side.

  My grandfather nods in acknowledgement.

  I walk forward, head high, and I can’t help laughing at myself.

  Humbly.

  There’s nothing humble about me today; I wear my best, my mother’s best, and I behave like the princess I will never be.

  But compared to the two gentry on the thrones, I am humble.

  They’re covered in gold, from the tips of their shoes to their heads. I understand the saying, now. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. It needs to be, with all that to carry. The queen’s satin gown is a thing of wonder, stitched with starlight, or so it seems. Her familiars are all equally magnificent. A giant wolf, though they’re rarely tamed, an ageless stag with antlers so large he’d had trouble passing through the doorway, a wyrcat, licking its paw of fae blood, a raven fixing me with its clever gaze, and the three serpents at her feet—one white, one evergreen, the last, dark as night.

  Seven. She has as many as Nyx, a sign that the land has recognized her as queen and blessed her. Familiars increase the power of their lords, and stand alongside them in a fight.

  I allow myself a second to gaze upon their magnificence before sinking to the floor in a well-practiced curtsy I never make use of anywhere except here.

  I’m grateful for the Whitecroft education. I’d have no idea what to do here without it. My mother has always hated the stiff ways of the court—she wouldn’t have taught me any of this.

  Seconds pass like the first raindrops before a downpour; one at a time, soft and silent, promising sorrow.

  Then she speaks. “Rise.” Her voice is as beautiful as the rest of her.

  I obey.

  I should feel sorry for my tormentor. Her desire to destroy me is written on every one of her features, marked in her sneer, tattooed in her flesh. The one thing stronger is her desire to use me.

  If I can be controlled, I’m an ace in her sleeve. The secret weapon that can change everything if there’s ever an attack on her person.

  Our kind isn’t what one would call a peaceful bunch. The gentry live for centuries, and we’re prone to violence. We’ve started wars for no other reason than shaking things up a little. Now that our courts are united, our enemy of choice are the seelie in the north—mostly because they’re as resilient and powerful as we, so our conflicts are interesting—but we’re not above waging wars on the Sea Lands, the immortals, the mortals, and even the Wilderness. Having someone like me to help can be useful.

  I could have been, in any case.

  Morgana Lilwreath willed it otherwise.

  That her daughter had eloped with a common fae without a drop of gentry blood was inexcusable. The moment Ciera Lilwreath linked herself to Nero Bane, she ceased to exist as far as the court was concerned.

  My birth changed things. Children of the high fae are rare enough to be celebrated, no matter their descent. And though the least of the royals, my mother was still a daughter of the realm. So, I was named right here in a shrine at the heart of the mountains, among the cries and cheers of the court.

  It is said that Morgana smiled when she first saw me. I can’t decide if I believe it. It’s a possibility. Despite our difference in heights, I look like her, more so than my mother, or any of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. As a child, there must have been some hint of that.

  Then I reached out to touch her hand. Instead of closing my fist around her finger as most children might have, I absorbed some of her energy.

  I couldn’t help it; not as a baby, not as a child, not as a teenager. I can barely help it now.

  Power over life. Power over death. I was blessed with the very ability Nyx herself had wielded.

  She rode to battle with her seven familiars, on the back of a giant wolf named Shadow, and it’s even said she was queen of crows. Her power—my power—was enough to conquer all the lands she passed through.

  As a child, I was fascinated by her. I remember studying each and every one of the paintings of her I’ve had a chance to come across. Even now, I can rarely resist a smile when I see her effigy. She was a legend, and none of her descendants had ever shared her gift.

  Until me.

  Morgana could have embraced me despite the threat I pose to the realm, to the court, to her rule. That’s too much to ask, I guess. But I suspect that if she’d carried me in her arms and cooed at me back then, things might be different.

  Instead, she drew a claw and branded a seal on my shoulder to limit my reach, sealing my powers inside me. The spell didn’t last—by my tenth year, my power had grown beyond it. It still hinders me, causing me pain every time I slipped and used the magic in me, but I’ve grown beyond it. I welcome the pain, just as I welcome my magic.

  Morgana has been shackling me ever since, one way or another. When her hex ceased to matter, she threatened my family, my home, our court and its folk. My life.

  That never fails to work. I’ve learned to be polite, deferential, subdued. I’ve learned submission.

  As she watches me from the dais lifting her golden throne, her purple eyes full of ire, I am the picture of affability. “It’s been so long, Grandmother Queen. Grandfather.”

  The queen’s consort smiles back.

  Morgana doesn’t. “Nevlaria.” Her greeting is half curse, half insult.

  My name was chosen by she. I’m not fluent in the old language, but it means something along the lines of Daughter of Nothing.

  Girl of the Void.

  I like it well enough.

  “The knights alerted me of a disruption in the Court of Mist.”

  At her side, my grandfather inclines his head, ever so slowly, his midnight eyes fixed on me. I don’t need him to voice the warning. I have to be careful about what I say now. Very careful.

  It takes every ounce of strength I possess, but I manage to lower my eyes to my hands in submission, feigning shame. “I’m so sorry, Grandmother. I had a nightmare.” I bite my lip. “I must have thrown a pillow down to the ground in my sleep, breaking the salt circle around my bed.”

  I’ve prepared many such excuses in advance, just in case anything ever happened. It’s the first time I’ve had to use one in decades.

  This one is the most appropriate today; it’s formulated like a guess, which allows me to lie. Saying that I had no idea what happened wouldn’t have gone well. Ignorance was dangerous. I
didn’t need her to tell me that.

  The queen narrows her eyes. She’s no more stupid than my father. Having a family made up of hundred-year-old wise creatures can be frustrating.

  At long last, she speaks. “Do not let this happen again, Nevlaria. For your sake.”

  I won’t.

  I can’t.

  I like being alive, for some reason. Despite the shackles, the curses, the futility of it all, I want to linger in this world.

  I curtsy, and start to turn my heels.

  “You’re not dismissed.”

  Of course not. My luck didn’t stretch that far.

  “You will attend Samhain at court this year.”

  I can’t hide my surprise.

  Save for the times when she has to lecture—or threaten—me, the queen generally likes me to stay in the Court of Mist, far from the high court. Now she’s inviting me to a revel?

  Not just a revel, the revel of the autumn. Samhain is celebrated throughout Tenebris. Everywhere, there will be feasts, dances, revels through the night and day. Wine and blood will flow like water down a stream, gentry and pucks will end up dancing naked until they all collapse. Most of the children of the folk were conceived on Samhain.

  I don’t know how the high court celebrates; I doubt it includes naked dances and drunken muddy romps with strangers.

  “It’s time you’re seen and appraised here.” The queen feeds a grape to the raven on top of her throne. “I won’t have you sully our name cleaning up after lower-borns for much longer.”

  I work as an assistant, and she makes it sound like I scrub latrines. I bite my tongue.

  And seen and appraised? What in the name of the gods does she mean?

  Then it hits me. She wants to match me.

  Of course she does.

  A hundred years ago, she did it to my mother. The salamander the queen picked for her daughter was a brutal warlord who’d run through three wives in as many decades. While he hadn’t actually been accused of killing any of them, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But Morgana found him suitable, because he was heir to the Court of Ash and had an army nigh on as large as the royal forces.

  I’d be sold like cattle too, if she could manage it.

  I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. Naivety, no doubt. My entire life, I’d thought she’d want to use me a different way—for my power, not my flesh.

  Morgana apparently had no issue killing two birds with one stone. I could be her weapon and her latest piece of meat for sale at the same time.

  I feel like the human brunette on display in the market square this morning. I wonder how she’d managed to smile.

  “I’m meant to be working on Samhain, my queen. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Lady Frost.”

  The queen bares her elongated canines—two sets of fangs that she keeps hidden when she wishes to appear pleasant.

  So, never in my presence.

  “And you wish to disappoint me?”

  Definitely the wrong thing to say. I’d had no response prepared for this specific situation.

  To my surprise, Grandfather comes to my aid. “We’ll talk to Lady Frost, Vlari.” His eyes still convey a clear message to me: be careful. “I’m certain Her Grace will agree we wouldn’t want you to miss your share of amusements.”

  I don’t have a choice, and I know it.

  I belong to the realm.

  I belong to the queen, until my death.

  Or hers.

  Matters of the Heart

  “Vlari.”

  Once away from the great hall, I run out of the royal caves like the devil’s hounds are on my tail, eager to escape the court and everything it stands for. Not many calls could have halted my path.

  Almost no one here would dare command me. They wouldn’t even dare try here, for attempting to do so would be questioning our matriarch’s rule.

  The high queen leads the court, the realm, and her descendants hold the same status: we’re the high heirs. The notion that the eldest male should be crown prince and inherit the rule of the realm simply because of the power of the Almighty Elder Penis is entirely mortal. Our kind doesn’t calculate the worth of an individual based on age or sex. What matters is the extent of our own powers, intelligence, and influence. In reality, how much the queen likes or dislikes us also plays a great part.

  At the moment, the favorite is my aunt Krona. I don’t know her well enough to judge whether her taking the crown would be an improvement over Morgana’s rule, and I may not have to find out. Two of the high princesses have already been murdered by one or another of their siblings. Krona might die, Morgana might choose another heir. I can’t say I pay much mind to the machinations of the court. I don’t think Morgana will let the crown pass on anytime soon in any case.

  Technically, any one of us, descendants of Morgana, may be the next ruler of the realm. She’ll name one when the time comes—or we’ll get to fight for the throne if she dies without choosing an heir. Thus, it is understood that every single member of the court, save the queen herself, is below us.

  The least of the royals I might be, but my birthright still buys me some peace here. By folk law, I answer to no one except the queen, and the queen is done with me.

  I stop all the same, and turn to my grandfather.

  Alven Oberon has little to no power in the high court. He is king of the Court of Mist, technically, but as he hasn’t stepped a foot in his land for centuries, that power has evaded him. When he was chosen as consort to Morgana, the domain fell into neglect, as the queen took up all of his time. Before I was born, Alven gave the ruling of the court over to my mother. I often wonder whether the queen was angry about it, but it was his to give.

  All in all, a high king consort is nothing; an elevated concubine.

  I could leave if I wanted to.

  I don’t. We have a strange relationship, he and I. We both know his wife hates me. We’re allies, nonetheless. As much of an ally as my enemy’s partner could ever be.

  And family. While I struggle to acknowledge Morgana and I share blood, there’s no doubt of my kinship to the king, though I share no features with him.

  His gaze hasn’t changed since he stood at his wife’s side moments ago. Stern, full of accusations and caution.

  While Morgana’s disapproval is born of hatred and mistrust, Alven only wears this look when I’ve disappointed him.

  Alven and Morgana are married—not bound or mated. They have a hundred-year-long contract, signed for political reasons. They've renewed it three times. No mystical link binds their souls.

  When Morgana decided to have children, she picked the most suitable partner to conceive them. Alven Oberon was a child of Skye, and she, a daughter of Nyx; the two most acclaimed unseelie queens in the history of our race. Alven also had the blessing of a human father, which meant that the likelihood of conceiving children with him was higher than with most gentry. Their union was born of greed and power, as many are in the royal family.

  Alven never has—and never will—say a word against his wife. She’s queen; he’s the breeder she chose to bind herself to. But unlike his wife, he’s shown interest in me. I know better than to trust him, but every time I’ve seen him, I’ve noted that he does what he can for my welfare.

  I might be wrong. He might just be one of the many ways the queen keeps me under her control.

  A hand on my hip, I glare. “What?”

  I’m tired of being treated like I kicked a litter of puppies for fun tonight. I had a bad dream, that was all.

  My annoyance only shows now because it’s safe to do so. Alven won’t slit my throat, or throw me down to crash at the bottom of the moat.

  I’m a coward, and I hate it.

  He tilts his head, gesturing for me to follow him.

  I glance left, to the doors leading out to the bridge. So close. I could have been out within a minute.

  With a sigh, I turn and follow after him. It would be foolish to sneer at my one ally here at court. A consort
has no direct power, but who knows what influence he has on the queen, in the dead of night, when he whispers on her silk pillow? There’s a chance that my continued survival is his doing—at least partially.

  King Alven takes me through the corridors on the west wing, opposite the Hall of Crowns and to a network of smaller hallways. The fae rushing past us are in plain uniforms, with caps and aprons. We’re in the servants’ quarters.

  He opens a few rooms, till he finds one fit for his purpose: it’s dark and empty.

  He leads me in. I follow, eyes narrowed, my entire body ready to pounce or fly at a moment’s notice. This is too strange, too outside of our usual ways. What’s going on?

  The moment we’re alone, he shouts, “What in the name of the underworld do you think you’re doing?”

  I can only blink.

  “An entire regiment of guards at the borders of the Court of Mist reported a potent energy shift at the property, miles away from the castle, Vlari!”

  I narrow my eyes, my ill humor showing. “I didn’t know a regiment was posted around our place at all.”

  I had been aware that I’d been watched, actually. My temper is flaring because I don’t like to be lectured more than I have to.

  Alven looks like he wants to throttle me. “No? It never occurred to you that our borders might be watched?”

  I bite my lip. The Court of Mist is the westernmost land of Tenebris; it’s logical that our army would be posted around us. The thought that my magic might have reached them, as far as they might have been, is chilling.

  What did I do last night? I’ve never been more frustrated.

  After a long interlude, he speaks again, slowly, with a visible effort to control himself. “If you ever need to use your power, you need to be smarter about it. A lot smarter.”

  Oh, bother. “I didn’t try to do anything.” I want to stomp my foot like a child, my irritation rising to an alarming point.

  Now that it’s clear I’m not going to be killed, I’m angry. At the world. At the realm. At him for being married to my enemy.

  I keep it in as best I can. He deserves my screams. He doesn’t deserve what will come if I don’t control myself. I grit my teeth as I strain to hold myself back. “I have no clue what happened. None.”