by Sage, May
While I would have fared better at home, under the tutelage of our people, my mother had insisted that I was to learn alongside my peers. It might have had something to do with the fact that I never learned to curtsy or talk like I should in my childhood. My parents were too kind, letting me run free in the hob-infested shrubs and roll in muddy swamps with ballybogs. I even flew in the woods, uncouth as showing my wings may be.
It was rare for Ciera to ever insist on anything—trusting her reasons, I suffered through the scornful disdain.
At least, while no one liked me here, they weren’t bold enough to tell me so to my face. They weren’t bold enough to approach me at all. I outranked them. A fact that warmed my cold little heart when I despised them most. I outranked them, and they hated it.
Between the ley lines, the protection of the queen, the knights, and the actual dragon teaching there, the notion that Whitecroft could be attacked was inconceivable. Yet there was no denying it: a round shot wrapped in fire was headed right to us, at a considerable speed, as if projected from a cannon.
Whitecroft was built in a time when windows weren’t considered fashionable—weathering the seasons, bitter or smoldering as they may be, was a show of strength, according to ancient nonsense. We had columns, alcoves, and archways leading right onto the playgrounds, the river, or the marshes, depending on what part of the keep we were in.
I barely had time to straighten up—Miss Moss moved like a tornado, placing herself in the way of the weapon. She caught it, and the flames disappeared. Only then did I realize it wasn’t a cannonball at all—or an attack. Feeling foolish, I rolled my eyes. She was holding an oval, smoking leather ball in her grasp. One of the other classes must have been playing Kings out there—one of the stupider popular games our kind indulged in. They ran around a field with four goal posts with symbols of each of the four elements, and gathered points by throwing the balls inside nets—it could only enter them when the ball was charged with the matching element. I didn’t pretend to understand more than the basics about it. Games might have interested me more had I been allowed to engage in them.
“Who threw this?” Our tutor spoke quietly, wrapping a threat around each syllable. I almost felt bad for the players outside.
Miss Moss was incontestably the scariest thing in Whitecroft.
I frequented more terrifying women on a daily basis, but to those who’d never shouldered the glare of the unseelie queen, the teacher certainly was formidable.
“Sorry, ma’am. I meant no harm.”
I recognized the voice, and could practically see dimples flash all the way from my seat.
Drusk.
The boy spent a year in my class, catching up on the many things he hadn’t been taught where he used to live. Then, our tutors bumped him up four grades. He was to graduate that year, though he was only twenty-four. He’d have completed his education in less than half the usual allotted time.
I couldn’t pretend not to envy him. For that, and other things.
Like his freedom.
Drusk had an older power, just like me—a rare magic defying the logic of elemental sorcery. But his was praised, nurtured. Mine was all but snuffed out. He was a Myst, a shadow wielder. So long as he’s in the dark, he can summon and control shadows, to conceal, transport, and yes, destroy too. I saw him set many things on fire when he concentrated too hard. Myst is a power with almost no limit, to those who can control it.
Our tutor’s lips curved up. I hadn’t been aware that Miss Moss could smile until then.
From the very first day, Drusk charmed the teachers, and the knights, and the pretty ladies.
The rest of Whitecroft knew his wrath instead.
I knew nothing other than what I’d observed from afar. He never so much as glanced my way. I wasn’t pretty enough, powerful enough, interesting enough to command his attention.
“See that you improve your aim, Mr. Drusk.”
She sent the ball back to him without so much as a detention.
I rose to my feet and silently handed her my paper.
I needed out of here.
Whitecroft had a boarding option, but my home was only an hour’s walk away—and I couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to remain there day in and day out.
After unseelie culture, my class just had training, and I was excused from that, due to my “fragile constitution.”
I was smiling and skipping on my way out, delighted to be done for the night, when I froze, shocked to see Drusk right in front of me.
I usually felt him long before I could see any part of him. Those of us blessed with magic have the ability to sense the energy of others like us. At school, I rarely noticed anyone, given the fact that many of us, descendants of old lines, wielded magic. My alert system was on overdrive.
Drusk was distinct from most; there was a boldness, a brightness to his soul, to his very aura.
Not today. I didn’t need to wonder why.
His jaw set, lips pursed, and eyes fixed forward, staring at a wall he’d just punched, judging by the fist-shaped dent in the stone. He didn’t notice me, lost in his rage.
I stood still for a moment, then decided to keep going, ignoring him right back. Catching the sound of my feet on the wooden flooring, he finally turned to me.
Seeing him step awkwardly and wince, I finally understood his anger.
He was hurt. Something was wrong with his foot.
Drusk wounded. The notion didn’t quite compute. He was greater than life in my mind. The boy who could do everything effortlessly.
I should have relished his suffering. Weakness was shameful to him—unacceptable—that much was clear.
Instead of basking in his pain as I should, I walked up to him, stopping too close—closer than I ever was to anyone who wasn’t part of my immediate family. That was the only way I could sense the extent of his wound.
He glared down at me, eyes narrowed, but didn’t say a word. Neither he nor I knew what to make of this. We never interacted. I was shaking the status quo, our reality where he was the popular, beautiful genius, and I, a mess not worth mentioning.
Observing him now, there was no doubt in my mind he knew just who I was. He didn’t look at me as though he’d never seen me before. He seemed to know everything about me—and he hated all of it.
I'd changed the game. I didn’t even understand it.
"A sprained ankle." Those were my very first words to him. I just stated the obvious, hardly at my wittiest.
His jaw tightened. “Dekren tackled me. It’s broken."
I had to disagree. "You wouldn't be able to put any weight on it if it were broken."
"That says how much you know about me, princess." That couldn’t have been said with more scorn.
I couldn’t tell whether I snorted or chuckled; something in between, half insulted, half amused.
I'd always been aware of him. Until that night, I hadn't realized he knew of me at all, but now it was plain enough: he really did. I'm the only princess in Whitecroft.
Well, he might have called all the girls he met that. I had no clue. I never took any interest in his method of seduction.
Not that he was seducing me. He still wore a sneer.
“Isn’t that thing with the lords tomorrow? The evaluation.” We were all getting tests that week before the midsummer break, but those in their last year at Whitecroft were in line for worse: their parents were coming to watch them perform, train, and fight. “How will you fare on your physicals, if your ankle is broken? Or sprained, for that matter.”
His black eyes flashed, burning into mine. I think he meant to frighten me. Maybe I should have been frightened.
"I heal as fast as your kind." His tone was defensive. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to be Rystan Drusk, a boy of common stock, without any official gentry ancestor.
His physical attributes made it clear that there was at least some gentry blood in him—he was too tall to just be a puck or a sprite, too sle
nder for an ogre or troll.
It's not unusual for servants to have gentry features—lords of manors have been known to fool around with their maids.
"And my kind would usually get better in…a day or two? When's your test?"
I didn't know why I was pushing him. Why I was talking to him at all. I should be on my way home.
He gritted his teeth. "Tomorrow."
My eyes darted down to his lame foot. I let my mind brush his, evaluating him.
"I could fix it." The words might have been a whisper, softer than wind, but they escaped all the same.
Dangerous words.
Just like that, I’d defied the unseelie high queen’s wish. I’d revealed my power. Part of it. There were other kinds of magic healers, after all. I hadn’t expanded on the full extent of my abilities. Morgana would have been furious all the same.
I couldn’t begin to explain what madness had seized me.
He focused on me, his sullen expression morphing to something else. Something a little like intrigue.
Lifting my chin, I repeated myself, louder that time. "I could technically fix your ankle—instantly. The question would be, what would you do for me in return?"
We were already too close, then Drusk took a step forward, closing the rest of the distance between us. His legs brushed mine. Tall as he was, he towered over me, but he lowered himself to gaze right into my eyes.
"What would you want from me, princess?"
Suddenly, I felt like the power had shifted. I wasn't negotiating anymore. He was. He had the air of a predator toying with its food.
"A favor," I blurted out, without thinking.
I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot, while he was gazing me down so intensely. An unnamed favor sounded like a reasonable request in exchange for a service rendered.
I think I might have surprised him, somehow. Drusk studied me, as if trying to make sense of me. I itched to fidget under the scrutiny. Instead, I stood my ground.
I half expected him to negotiate, state terms, limits, or demand that I define the favor. To my surprise, he inclined his head. "You have my word. If you can patch me up reasonably right now, you'll name a favor and I'll do it.”
That seemed too easy.
He was the strongest boy of his age, the most popular male at Whitecroft, and I, his polar opposite. Yet suddenly, he’d let me claim power over him.
Madness must have been catching.
I grinned.
Whispers in the Dark
Drusk was the first one to owe me.
I made a bit of a mess of that specific oath—it might not even be binding, though no fae can easily weasel out of their word. After taking care of his tiny little sprain, that absolutely hadn't been a break, I returned home drunk on power.
A feat, for someone like me.
My constitution makes me physically weaker, and I hadn't yet learned to fight; my one skill, I wasn't allowed to use. I'd never known I could acquire a different kind of strength until then.
A week later, overhearing Sylph Thorn and Brenne Ivy whispering about blessed waters on our lunch break out in the grove, I rolled my eyes.
Blessed waters has little use, particularly for two girls of twenty, without so much as a drop of sea fae blood in their veins, but we’d learned that it was one of the ingredients necessary to brew amoria. A temporary love spell that would get any man kneeling at their feet, begging for their kisses for an hour or two, amoria was of little use against the gentry. I could only think of one boy they might want to spell—Drusk. They wanted his attention before he left our school this year. Winter had already given way to spring; summer would be upon us in no time, and Drusk would be gone by the end of it.
Thinking of him brought an idea to the edge of my mind—a silly notion that I half dismissed.
To my surprise, I said, "I could get you some."
The girls ate their pies near the grounds’ well, a few paces away from my willow tree. I knew better than to approach that well; the hag at the bottom of it could get bored and decide to snack on any of us if the inclination struck her.
They heard me all the same.
I didn’t think I’d ever talked to either of them before.
Sylph was my cousin, of sorts—the same way anyone with royal blood calls ourselves cousins, evoking a common ancestor so far removed no one cared who it was. I believed our link might have come from my grandfather's side. It mattered not; we were strangers, for all intents.
Brenne's family, the Ivies, married the ruling family of the Court of Ichor, a southern kingdom of warriors. She was considered a princess in her land. Though I technically outranked either of them, their families were rich and mighty, and mine, disgraced.
I didn't expect either of them to pay me any mind, but they stopped chattering, and turned to me. They both looked shocked that I'd addressed them.
Before they recovered, I clarified, "I could get you blessed waters."
It was easy enough, all it took was a drop of royal blood given freely, in a little fresh water—my blood, not Brenne's. Since the high court rose, the land and sea stopped recognizing the local kings and queens as true authorities.
Giving one’s blood wasn’t something to be taken lightly, but I didn’t think either of them had the mastery of sorcery it would take to curse me, or bind me to them. Besides, there was no reason why they would have wanted to. Their one desire was to get the attention of whichever boys they couldn’t have.
They glanced at each other. I took a bite of the black apple in my hand and shrugged. "Just putting it out there."
We were to return for our astrology lesson any minute; I started to walk back to class.
"Wait! Would you really get us the water?" Brenne never sounded that whiny before. "I'd pay anything."
Still facing away from the two girls, I grinned, hoping no man would ever render me quite so desperate.
"I don't need money." Neither of them believed that, but it was true. Having been raised on little funds, I’d never seen the necessity of piles of money.
Our house belonged to us, the servants working there and knights sworn to us were cared for, and we had plenty of food on our table. Imps and brownies made my clothes, my mother owned plenty of jewels. I didn't think I needed material possessions back then—the beauty of youth. And the roof hadn't fallen in yet.
"I'll do it for a favor."
They accepted. I remember chuckling to myself as I saw Drusk and one of his friends, a selkie boy I never got to know—he was older than me—trip over themselves to dance with the girls at the next school feast.
I provided little things that were in my immediate power to my classmates for months; they told their friends, who told their own friends in turn, that I was the one to speak to when they needed anything.
In time, I became someone. Not someone important, perhaps, but someone whose name they all knew. People said hello when we crossed paths, even outside of school.
And the next five years at Whitecroft weren't utter torture because of my newfound influence.
The last five decades were just more of the same.
The second time I spoke to Drusk was at the summer ball Whitecroft held before our holiday break.
I didn’t usually attend dances. They weren’t my thing. But the school asked my father to play that year, which meant that he knew the day of my end of year dance; he begged and pouted until I promised I’d go with him.
I let my mother knot my hair with wild flowers and I wore one of her dresses, as none of mine could even pass for appropriate, and I saw no point in wasting money on gowns that wouldn’t fit me in a few seasons. I still had hopes of growing a few inches taller, or at least larger around the chest.
I got one out of two.
Her dress was a white lace and silk gown that reached her knees, but fell to the floor on me. We knotted a large belt at my waist so that it didn’t look like a tent. The result was passable, like me.
I watched my father from
the edge of the clearing where the ball was held, impatiently wondering when it would end, when something bumped into me.
I narrowed my eyes and turned sharply, half expecting a prank; no one had thrown something in my direction. What crashed on me was a person; a person too distinctive for me to fail recognizing him.
He was a head taller than the professor, so I was about half his height. My mouth opened, though I don’t know what I would have said.
Then he laughed, and I understood. He was drunk. Of course; the wine had flowed like a waterfall for hours. Most of my classmates were in a worse state.
“The dance is that way,” I told him, pointing to his friends at the center of the clearing.
He didn’t so much as glance at them. “You’re here.”
The banal observation was born of too much flower wine.
“Why are you here, Nevlaria? All alone by yourself.”
“My grandmother calls me Nevlaria. When I’m in a lot of trouble. I answer to Vlari.” I didn’t try to point out that my being alone was the natural order of things.
“You do?” He seemed confused, like he’d never heard it. Instead of returning to his friends, like he should, like I expected him to do, he extended his hand. “Well, Vlari. It only took five years for a proper introduction. Nice to meet you. Drusk.”
“I know.” Everyone knew him.
“You never told me how you did the trick. With my ankle.”
“You never asked,” I shot back.
He laughed. There was no scowl from him that night. No sneering. He’d have been charming, if he wasn’t the most dangerous thing there.
“And you also never named the favor I might do for you.”
“I will.” I wasn’t stupid enough to waste Drusk’s oath on a triviality. I’d use it when I needed to, not a moment sooner. “When it benefits me.”
His smirk was mischievous. “You aren’t going to ask me to kiss you? To touch you? I could take you right here in the shadows, against a tree.” He leaned in. “I think you might like that.”