Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

  Padetra and her crew travel the edges of our lands, stopping at every harbor to acquire anything she thinks she can sell.

  She’s by far my least favorite market dweller—not because the strong, small, graying woman is mortal, but because she’s utterly uninterested in bargains, preferring cold gold coins in her palm. And yet, I never can stop myself from stopping by when she comes to us.

  She’s a window to the rest of the world, bringing dwarven iron, elven silks, the magic of the gods themselves, the sweetest plums, and drawings of cities I’ll never see, worlds I’ll never know. I hear she even ventures to the Wilderness, under the protection of one of the untamed tribes.

  Today, she’s escorted by a boy who looks to be my age; his sun-kissed skin and bulk mark him as one accustomed to labor, but I notice his eyes above anything else—so like Padetra’s. Her son, or grandson perhaps. I smile at him, as I’ll no doubt have to deal with him directly in a decade or two. This stand was minded by Laurelei, Padetra’s mother, before she passed. Such is the nature of mortals.

  The boy reddens to the tips of his ears and blurts out, “May I help you?”

  Before I can decline his assistance, the old human croaks a laugh. “Oh, I don’t think so. Never let this one sweet talk you, boy. She’ll have you dancing to her tune in no time. Get the rest of my books!”

  He rushes to obey.

  “You’re making me sound like such a temptress.” I’m not displeased at that notion, and I must show it, because the merchant laughs.

  “I think not, but the boy has a soft spot for little, helpless girls.”

  I grimace at her assessment of me, wishing I could unsheathe my blade and show her just how helpless I am.

  I’m not without pride. Thankfully for her wrinkled neck, I’m well practiced in hiding it. “You have books?”

  I’ve read precious little. Books are costly, and purchasing them is never a priority in the Bane household. In my school days, we were given textbooks, poems, and spellbooks for our studies, and I don’t think I’ve touched more than a handful of volumes since then.

  “You have money?” she returns.

  I do, but it can’t be squandered for my amusement.

  I don’t give an answer, looking at the trinkets on her table. One curved dagger with a black edge and a wooden hilt, and a goblet carved in bone catch my eye first, then I frown. Underneath the goblet, there’s a thick leather-covered book locked by a heavy silver chain.

  I like books well enough, mostly because they’re the kind of luxury I don’t have access to, but this one enraptures my attention at first glance.

  At the center of the embellished cover, one signet has been stamped into the leather. It’s a V, with the left branch smaller than the right and at a deeper angle, and with a line crossing through the middle of the letter. Splitting it like that makes it look like V.N.

  It’s mine. V for Vlari. N, for my full name. I’ve signed like this as long as I could remember. I’ve never seen anyone else write like this, but here is my mark, sealing a dusty manuscript that looks older than any of the courts.

  I push the goblet aside and take the book. It’s heavy and smells rotten, moldy and foxing on the borders. I bet half the pages have crumbled away. I can’t tell: the book is locked tight.

  “Hey! No touching if you can’t pay.” Padetra is grouchy as ever.

  “How much?” I counter.

  She isn’t impressed. I often browse her stand, but I’ve never purchased anything from her. “Too much.”

  She doesn’t bother adding for you.

  “What, my gold isn’t good enough for you?” I unhook the pouch at my belt and the coins inside jingle.

  She considers me, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge how much I’d be willing to spare. I replace the book where I’ve taken it, nonchalant as I can manage to be.

  “Five gold coins.”

  I laugh. That’s all I can do. Yet, my spirit sinks. I expected her to overreach—the Light Market is a place of bartering—but if she starts at five gold coins, there’s no hope of lowering her expectations to a price that I can afford.

  The repair of the roof will cost me ten gold coins overall, because all I need to purchase is the materials; with the help of some villagers who’ll trade their assistance for a few coins, our sprite can handle the work if he has what he needs.

  I have eight gold coins; I’ll have eight more in a week when my wages are due. I can spare the money, but I know I shouldn’t. I have to buy a dress for Samhain, and so many other practical things.

  I know what my father would say. That the roof isn’t my responsibility at all; that he’ll have the money by spring. By spring, there will be another emergency, and I would have spent the winter wet and cold in the east wing.

  I know what my mother would say. That a daughter of hers should think to please herself, first and foremost and at any cost. She’s never been one for responsibilities. She loves her life exactly as it is now, or she would change it. She loves hunting, and keeping a house away from court, and above all, she loves my father.

  I lift a brow. “What book could possibly be worth half that?”

  She cackles like she’s never heard a more diverting joke. “That says how much you know of the old world, girl. Let someone who can appreciate it buy it.”

  There’s a finality to her words. Despite myself, I’m enthralled. I need to know what’s in this book, just as much as I needed Khia’s oath a week ago.

  We unseelie are creatures of desires, intense, burning wants that overcome any sense. The most powerful of us are least equipped to deal with denial, and though I’m well leashed, my spirit burns as bright as any unseelie lord out there.

  I’ve learned to hide it, and to satisfy it in secret, but I know that if she looks into my eyes now, she’ll see me for what I am.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t.

  I contain myself and force a smile. “Two.”

  “I think not.” She takes my measure, and narrows her eyes, understanding I am serious about purchasing this musty book. “Four. That’s my last call.”

  “Two and ten silvers.”

  “I can get four at any market in the capital.” We stare at each other, unblinking. Though she is mortal, I can’t deny her will is as unbending as that of many folk. Finally, she grumbles, “I can let it go for three.”

  I sense she won’t lower it any more than that, and while three gold coins is more than what I’ve spent on myself my entire life, I can’t help considering it. My book beckons me—for it is already mine, in my mind at least.

  “Well, then you’re going to have to open it, first. Let’s see what I’m buying.”

  She’s no fool; sensing a trick, Padetra makes me swear I won’t steal it, or memorize it, or curse it. The word of a fae is binding, as we cannot tell lies. I fantasize at least half a dozen ways I can still inconvenience her if I have a mind to, but I’m more interested in peeking at the book than I am in being a nuisance today.

  She fits a silver key into a small lock and the book opens with a click. I draw it to me, rapturous. She peeks at it over her stand; until now, I don’t think she’s had the curiosity to open it, only interested in its value.

  I tilt it at an angle to prevent her from spying on me, mostly out of spite.

  I read the first page, stare at it for the longest time. There are only a few words in it, but they shake me like nothing has before, not even Drusk.

  Journal of Void, it says, in elegant, flourished handwriting scribed in red ink that smells faintly of dried blood. Not one word is the least bit faded, as if a spell preserved it.

  And I don’t doubt it did, not when I read the name of the writer.

  Nyx.

  Daughter of Maeve.

  Underneath, her hand has signed it, her hand exactly like mine, with that strange V.N.

  I don’t question whether it’s genuine. I know it is. I feel it. It tells me so.

  It is my book. It was meant to get into my hands.

&
nbsp; I give her the three coins in haste, before she thinks better of it and demands five again.

  I’d pay anything I have for it. One look into my eyes and I feel like she might discover it.

  A Fairy Bargain

  I barely sleep for days, reading Nyx’s journal every moment that I don’t spend serving Lady Frost.

  It seems to be an account of her life on a day-to-day basis. Her handwriting and style are both formal and elegant, though occasionally she’s blacked out one word, or ripped out pages.

  I like to think it was her who ripped them out, anyway. If someone else did, I’d hunt them and rip off their head.

  I’ve never felt closer to anyone in my life. The Nyx I’ve admired for so long was a girl once. In this book, she’s younger than me; she started writing it after her schooling was over.

  She spoke of the Court of Wind, and I can’t recognize even a shadow of the Wicked Court in her words. This land was ruled by her mother Mab to be a hub for the arts—musicians, painters, sculptors were welcome at court along with the gentry. I read of peace and beauty in the very halls that now terrify me.

  What mystifies and arouses me is the way she talks of her power, as if it were nothing at all; an inconvenient, seldom useful, hard to cultivate gift.

  She calls it Void, and now her title makes sense.

  I’m shocked to realize that she used it for more than I could ever have thought possible. Nyx didn’t only kill a butterfly to bring life to a flower as a young fae. She learned to weave spells with her gift. Enchant twigs so that they could sustain the life of its wearer even if they were grievously injured, and gifted them to her favorite knights. She used Void to sustain spells indefinitely, drawing on her energy to anchor them. How I wish she detailed the spells in the journal, but she never did, using the pages to recount her days and share her frustration with the world. Simply knowing it is possible to mold my abilities that way makes me ache to try, but I don’t dare. The queen’s spies could sense me again, and there would be no saving me this time.

  After another week of work, and sleepless days lost in the book, I wake up to a shrill cry. Stumbling out of bed, I kick at the salt circle on my floor and blink to force my eyes to see clearly through the drowsy haze.

  I settle, confused. Rattafer, one of the housemaid imps, round and with leathery pink skin, is shaking what appears to be the carcass of a squirrel, and yelling at me.

  “Never have I seen such disrespect for my profession! The lady of the house will hear of this, mark my word! Food on the couch? Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of crushed velvet?” She’s prone to anger, but I don’t recall having seen her quite so irate before.

  I groan, willing my body to let go of alarm.

  No need to question why she’d think I’d snack on raw squirrel—I like a fresh kill as well as anyone—the question is, what was it doing here in the first place? I certainly haven’t brought it upstairs.

  I glance at my couch, nestled underneath my open window.

  Strange. I would have sworn it was closed before I went to bed.

  Ignoring the sniveling horned imp cleaning up and muttering curses, I endeavor to get ready for the night ahead—my one night off this week.

  We’re one week away from Samhain now, and I can no longer ignore that I need to prepare for it.

  I paid for the repair of the rest of the roof when I got my wages three days ago, prioritizing a dry bed over everything else. It leaves me with little in the way of funds; certainly not enough to afford the kind of gown I ought to wear for a court fete.

  Part of me wonders whether I should choose my simplest dress, and stay at the edge of the celebration, ready to fly away at the first sign of hostility. Part of me craves that safety. I won’t. Acting like a spineless shrew would do nothing but brand me as a weak thing, easy to manipulate, easy to break. I cannot afford for my grandmother to see me that way.

  I cannot afford for anyone in the court to see me that way.

  Asking Esea for a gown is an option—she certainly has many to spare—but we look nothing alike. I’d be quite ridiculous in anything she owns, unless I have imps rip it apart and adjust it. No gown deserves so little respect.

  I tip my leather purse over my bed and count my marks: three gold coins, ten silvers, and a handful of coppers.

  I don’t need much; I’m fed and housed and cared for at home. I don’t have any expensive habits to sustain. There’s enough wine in the cellar to last a hundred years, if I was inclined to drown my sorrows. I can spend it all. But it won’t get me far, especially if I’m to get shoes, too. And I should.

  I decide to just buy the fabric; Nerella, the long-clawed puck who serves as my mother’s maid, can sew well enough to fashion me a gown. And no one will pay attention to my feet. I can wear some of my own shoes. Never mind that I only own three pairs, all of them ankle boots.

  Mounting Bess, I coax the beast into taking me to Hardrock, the pouch of coin tied at my belt along with my swords.

  Outside of the Light Market, I don’t know the city as well as I should. I only lose my way twice before finding the street of cloth. I’ve never had cause to wander this way before.

  I don’t even think of entering the velvet-clad store of the dressmaker, Ma’am Rolo, who is so well renowned that even Esea and Sylph don’t make a habit of commissioning her; they each own one gown made by the dressmaker, and they treasure them so well they’ve never worn them. Both hang on the walls of their parlors, enclaved in glass, like pieces of art.

  Rolo would demand at least a liver, if not a heart. Lower down the long street, there are more modest stores. The windows show drapes that look pretty enough.

  I wish I knew a thing about clothes; new clothes. I’ve had little occasion for purchasing or ordering any in the past. I only require of my outfits that they keep me warm and cozy. On Samhain, I need it to keep me alive and free.

  “By Nyx!” The voice is deep and suave and low. I’d know it anywhere.

  I stop before thinking better of it, though at least I don’t turn to face Drusk.

  What is he doing here?

  “Do my eyes deceive me?”

  I hear his steps getting closer to me. Itching to run away or turn around, I do neither, feigning interest in the display of furs and silk.

  “Princess Vlari. On the streets.” He makes it sound like I’m too good for walking in Hardrock, as if I’m a pompous noble—the kind who orders dressmakers to their homes and wouldn’t think to join the people for an hour or two.

  He’s either teasing me, or he doesn’t know me at all. The latter, I expect.

  I lift my gaze to the sky, willing the stars to give me strength to deal with him.

  I’ve managed to avoid him for the last three weeks. When I sensed him, I reminded Lera of an errand or two she’d meant to have me carry out for her. Now he’s here, standing right in front of me. Too close. His scent is so distinctive and heady. It’s fresh, almost sweet. I catch notes of wood, moss, and rain. Maybe a drop of blood.

  I lift my hand to his chest, at eye level with me. I mean to push him back a foot or two. But I keep my palm there. “That’s near enough.”

  He seems to find my obvious discomfort amusing. “Has anyone ever told you how unpleasant you can be, Vlari?”

  Not to my face.

  “And yet, you keep bothering me. What does that say about you?”

  I’m so distracted I don’t even feel another intrusion into my personal space until it’s too late; I catch the sound of a clever blade cutting my purse off my belt.

  I turn on my heels, tense, and prepare to pursue the thief. Facing him, I stay right where I am.

  It’s a blue, wrinkled imp of a tender age—no more than a boy, who hasn’t even grown horns—wearing rags, his pale green skin caked in mud.

  He must be no older than eight, and he is far too thin for my liking; like a twig ready to snap.

  I know hunger. Not like some—not like the boy—but some winters, when our crop
s wouldn’t grow and my mother couldn’t hunt every day, we did get hungry enough for me to begin to understand.

  Three gold coins might have bought me fabric for a passable dress and a pair of plain enough shoes, but for him, it’s a month of food in his belly—he could even stretch it to the whole winter if he’s careful.

  “Want me to get it back?”

  I forgot all about Drusk. He’s frowning, watching the boy go. I wonder what he thinks of him. Whether he regards him with pity or contempt. I can’t tell from his expression at all. Whatever it is, it feels cold.

  I shake my head. “No. It was nothing of consequence.”

  I can say it because it’s entirely true to me. The dress, the nonsensical feast I don’t want to go to. I’d attend in rags, if it was unlikely to ignite Morgana’s wrath.

  “Well, it’ll certainly make your trip in the street of cloth less productive. Let me lend you whatever you need for today.”

  I refuse, reluctant to owe him anything if I can help it. Besides, I couldn’t afford to repay him until my next wage day, which I won’t earn for weeks. I’ll borrow one of my mother’s dresses. I’m so short, it’ll be like I’m playing dress-up, but I can’t say I care. Nerella’ll adjust it.

  I could ask my parents for money, too. That option makes me feel uncomfortable. I mean to earn my bread and my fineries. It’s all well and good for the Thorns to leech off their parents—they have enough money to go around. Mine don’t.

  Sighing, I resign myself to making my way back to the Light Market. I’m owed dozens of favors after all. I’m sure they can glean me a few yards of velvet or satin.

  Drusk’s not done with me. “I insist. And I do owe you, if you recall.”

  Ah! He aims to exchange the oath I’ve extracted from him for a few coins. I think not.

  I face him directly, staring right into his annoying face, gritting my teeth. “I said no. Nothing could induce me to relinquish the power I hold over you. Nothing.” I mean every single word.

  I expected to make him angry, but instead of displeasure, I see eagerness, rapture, excitement flare in him. I’ve set a challenge. He may just be bored enough to rise to it.