Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

  “I used to think you were hard to understand. Different from the rest of us, somehow.” The next step he takes brings him back in my personal space. I refuse to budge, knowing he wants to see me step back, show fear. “But you love power as much as the next gentry, don’t you, Nevlaria?”

  “How would you know? You’re no gentry.” I can tell I’ve succeeded in hurting him, and for a moment, I’m glad of it.

  “And yet I have a better position than you. More money than you. More friends than you, princess.”

  “If only I were interested in position, money, or friends, I might envy you.”

  I turn my back on him and stride toward the market, certain he’ll give up this time. Which shows that I don’t know him any more than he knows me.

  “Aren’t you spending Samhain at court?” he calls from where I left him.

  Word apparently travels fast.

  I ignore him.

  “If you wanted a dress today, I could have one made for you. For a price.”

  Damn him. Now I’m curious again. What could he possibly want of me? It shouldn’t matter; I won’t let him spend his money on me. Yet I can’t help myself. I turn back to him.

  He doesn’t need prompting to state his offer. “Let me escort you.”

  I laugh at the sheer absurdity of the notion. It’s all very scandalous, and stupid beyond measure. Me, on his arm? Me, at court, with Rystan Drusk?

  “I can wear something I own.”

  His gaze takes me in from head to toes. I internally wince, knowing what he sees.

  I’m in brown leather breeches, green boots, a tunic, my leather coat, and a cloak—my standard ensemble when I’m not working. I have half a dozen such outfits, in various shades of browns and greens. He’s never seen me in anything but this gear, or the faded, plain dresses I wear at the Frosts’.

  “You absolutely cannot wear something you own.”

  “Have you taken an inventory of my wardrobe?” I question. Never mind the fact that he’s right.

  “I may have served at court for all of three weeks, but I’ve seen enough to understand they wear something extravagant for lunch. And brunch.” He considered his words. “And tea. For dinner, they’re in gold and silks and velvets. This season’s, not the last—otherwise they’re mocked mercilessly. Something tells me you don’t enjoy being mocked.”

  He isn’t telling me anything I’m not already acutely aware of, but I bristle all the same. “Then you’ll understand why I prefer not to talk to you.”

  I start to walk away, and predictably, he chases me. “You think I jeer at you?”

  “Frequently.”

  Drusk’s smirk only serves to confirm that impression. I walk faster.

  “Let us make a formal bargain. I hear it’s your predilection these days.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Right.”

  The one thing fae love above all is bargains. We bargain with mortals, with dwarves and gods. There are no rules, other than the fact that we have to win. No pleasure is near as exquisite as tricking another fae.

  As a teen, I’d offered something he needed, and he’d agreed to my terms without questioning them. I’d give him my heart on a silver platter before I’d make a bargain with him on his terms.

  “A simple, straightforward one. No tricks.”

  I snort.

  “Don’t you want to hear about it, at least?”

  I shouldn’t. He’ll make it sound reasonable, maybe even desirable, but he is going to trick me, I am certain of it.

  I make the mistake of turning back to him and looking right into his dark blue eyes.

  Suddenly, I want to hear it. Nyx wouldn’t let him go without at least knowing what he has to say.

  “All right.” I’m all business. “State your terms. This is not an agreement. I only offer to hear you out.”

  I shouldn’t even do that.

  Drusk takes a long time to think of his words, which only serves to make me more suspicious.

  “You, Nevlaria Bane, will take me to Samhain with you next week, and in exchange, I, Rystan Drusk, will buy you a dress for it. Whatever dress you desire. This is the full extent of our agreement and I swear to uphold it unless death, or you, release me from my word.”

  I turn the words around my mind, over and over. They’re ironclad and simple, unadorned with fairy mischief.

  There are too many words, but all sound good and simple.

  What does he want? How could he have tricked me without my knowing? And he must have.

  Bargains that seem to favor one side over the other tend to have hidden traps, but however much I try to decipher hidden meanings, this one seems fair. Equal.

  Drusk would never be invited to attend a high court celebration like Samhain; it is the affair of kings, queens, princes, and princesses, where only dukes and high lords may stand witness. It’s the heart of the royal court, where blood matters more than worth and deeds. The one way he can join would be as a soldier guarding the gentry, and even that honor might be hard to achieve.

  If he wishes to go, he’ll have to accompany someone. I’m his ticket. He’s willing to pay for the entry.

  I see how it might benefit him to go with me, rather than a gentry he might have to flatter for tedious hours.

  Now I think about the consequences for me.

  The queen will be furious.

  She wants to wed me to whomever she’ll profit most from, but if I arrive with a man like Drusk at my side, I doubt I’ll get any interest. Alone, I’m an opportunity—a weak, poor, malleable princess many might wish to own, a prized possession. With Drusk, I’d be a wild card, someone who doesn’t mind associating with dangerous men—with the wrong men.

  I’d wanted to go showing strength, using a pretty dress that didn’t let me be unnoticed. Instead, I could show power. I could show Drusk as my ally. A pretty lie no one would question.

  We can use each other.

  So I say, “And shoes. You’re buying me shoes, too.”

  Part of me feels like I’ve taken leave of my senses.

  The other part is looking forward to Samhain now, despite all its dangers.

  The queen, the lords, and Drusk.

  Thorns and Silk

  We end up at Ma’am Rolo after all; not by my will. Drusk asks me which designer I favor, and when I come up blank, he recommends her. “I hear she’s the best.”

  “That also means the dearest.”

  He shrugs that off. “It sounds like my problem, not yours.”

  I glance at him, wondering at his magnanimous generosity. I’ve never had cause to think soldiers earn quite enough to squander their gold in such a manner.

  Ma’am’s twig-limbed brownie assistant greets us, and after opening an account in Drusk’s name, quickly ushers him to what she calls the husbands’ cafe. They’re to be given as much wine as they need to forget that their wives are spending their fortunes next door.

  It’s all very scandalous, to me at least.

  Then I’m taken to a large room closed with blood-red velvet curtains, where assistants undress and measure me.

  I peek at the numbers scribbled on their sketches and sigh. I’m four foot nine, still. I hold myself straighter, imagining that I might earn the last inch that would bring me to a more reasonable height.

  The high fae females stand around five foot ten on average. Of course, the pixie females are often under four feet in height, like Meda. When my father didn’t inherit her legacy, she generously passed it down to me.

  I wish certain bequests could be returned.

  I’m served wine and taken to a room with an endless supply of fabrics; lace, silks, velvets, embroidered satin, of all colors and weights. I’m overwhelmed, hardly knowing where to look, touching everything, finding a new favorite shade at every turn.

  It’s just as well I can’t afford to buy from stores like this; I’d waste my life away in here.

  I want everything. Having to settle on one piece of cloth seems an impossible f
eat, until I see it.

  A midnight-blue tulle with gold thorns embroidered all along its length; no roses, just the thorns. It’s beautiful and prickly. It’s harsh and soft all at once.

  It’s me.

  I rush to it and touch the cloth. It’s softer than it appears to be, and warm enough for a winter night.

  “This.”

  The assistant tells me I need to pick a plainer fabric to complement it; I find blue velvet, and next, I’m taken to Ma’am Rolo herself.

  While I’m surprised, I hide it well. I tower over her, and the slightest wind could blow her away. Ma’am Rolo is a pixie, or something close to it, though she has eyes of sea and the long limbs of a spider. Her lumpy trumpet nose and big eyes without pupils, stuck inside of her skull, suggest imp ancestry. Her skin is the green of moth, and she has long white hair braided at the back of her head.

  I expected a sprite. That a lower fae has managed to rise as the best-known dressmaker in Hardrock is no small achievement.

  “Who are you? I know your kind.”

  I’m too stunned to reply immediately.

  “Nilieth, Nilian, Niligan, Morigan…”

  “Vlari.” I introduce myself, cutting her off. I don’t need to be reminded of the names of all my ancestors. “Nevlaria Bane.”

  She nods like that makes sense to her, and takes notes in a small notebook she keeps close to her.

  “Yes, yes. The youngest born. I’m glad to see you, finally. I’ve outfitted every woman in your family, you know. Everyone since Nyx herself.”

  Now knowing how old she is, I don’t need to wonder how she knew what clan I belonged to, though the purple in my hair is knotted away in my hairdo.

  She could probably smell my blood a mile away. “Even my mother?” I ask, curious.

  Ciera doesn’t talk of her time at court; what I’ve learned, others have told me.

  “Every woman.” Ma’am shrugs, eyes measuring me.

  If she’s used to the lithe Lilwreaths like the queen and her daughters, I must be a disappointment.

  “At least you’re interesting.” I know better than to take her assessment as a compliment. “Now, answer. What do you like most about yourself?”

  I’m confused.

  “A heartbeat per answer is all you’re permitted to think. I don’t have time to waste.”

  I say the first thing I can think of. “My eyes?”

  “Mh. Hence the blue. Yes. It’ll do. Do you have a pretty back?”

  “I can’t tell, I’ve only ever seen myself from the front.”

  She keeps shooting questions. “Your bosom satisfies you? How about your bottom? Your legs? Arms? Fingers? Chin?”

  I feel like I’ve been interrogated by a formidable general by the end of it, exhausted and self-conscious. I’d never thought that I needed to pay that much attention to my features until now.

  “When do you need the dress?”

  “For Samhain. I know it’s soon, but…”

  “It’ll be ready. I’ll have it delivered to you. Next.” And I’m dismissed.

  I return to the entrance to find Drusk, who also survived the husbands’ lounge.

  “That was stranger than expected,” I tell him.

  He opens the door for me, and we leave the store together.

  I don’t know what to do with him now that he’s served his purpose, though his presence isn’t altogether unpleasant.

  To fill a comfortable silence I don’t know what to do with, I speak. “Are your wings getting better?”

  He glances at me, eyes narrowed. Wings are private things; our one true vulnerability, as they’re fragile and slow to heal. Speaking of his arse would have been less uncouth.

  I’ve never been one for polite nonsense though. “I figured anything else would have healed by now.”

  It had been two weeks since he’d come back, and there was no need of his returning to his battalion; it must have been his wings.

  After a time, he nods. “Slowly. A tear can take years to mend. I won’t be able to go back to the front until after they’re well. Unseemly as uncovering wings might be in the courts, many of the defense maneuvers we practice need fully functioning wings.”

  That explains his being here for an extended time. I’m surprised how easy it was to get the answer I wanted. I’m used to everything having to be hidden, concealed.

  I muse at his world, so different from mine. He isn’t afraid of showing who he is. He isn’t even afraid of his weaknesses.

  “Do you want to? Return to the front, that is.”

  He laughs. It’s humorless, almost harsh. “An interesting question.”

  I want to push, but for once, I don’t make myself disagreeable.

  “This is me,” I say, indicating Bess, making a fool of herself next to a fancy black warhorse who doesn’t spare her a glance.

  I laugh, seeing her neigh and bump into him.

  The horse keeps ignoring her; there is even a unicorn strapped next to her, for the gods’ sake. Can’t she tell she doesn’t have a chance?

  “Me too.” He points to his mount, the stud that dwarfs my silly Bess.

  Of course.

  We trot down the road leading east of the city.

  “You still live at the Frosts’?”

  “Not quite. I was given chambers at court. I just don’t like them much. And Lera’s cook makes me buttercakes.”

  He seems so very normal today. I can’t trust it. I feel like a trap is closing around me. That there’s a joke going on and I’ll be the victim, when the game comes to a close.

  “I don’t. Want to return to the front. Not truly. But I also don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

  “How so?”

  “I had a different fate. I was going to be a farmer or a servant, like my parents. One day, I was fighting against some town boys who were bothering my sister, when I caught Genrion Frost’s eye. He saw what I was capable of. And he sought to use it. I was young—too young for his armies—so he put me through school, helping me and my family out. When I was old enough, I was expected to enlist. That was the bargain. And I wanted to.”

  All in the past.

  “What happened?” I need to know. He could have a bargain out of me just to spell it out.

  Thankfully, he doesn’t demand it. “The army. The gentry see it from the strategy board, and suffer through one or two days of fighting a month. I saw it from the trenches. I saw it in the cold mud. I saw friends fall—friends I cared for. I don’t particularly wish to see more of it. But someone has to do it. And I’m better than most. When I’m healed, I’ll go back. It’s my place.”

  All of a sudden, I’m angry, frustrated, at him and myself, though I can’t pinpoint the reason why.

  I’m glad we’re at an intersection I have to take north; the Frosts’ is south of our lands.

  “Until Samhain, then? If not before.”

  I’m working for the next three days. I might see him then, but I wish I wouldn’t.

  I can only take so much of Drusk without drowning.

  He nods and turns his impressive horse south.

  Something bothers me about the entire situation; about him. Always has.

  And I still can’t pinpoint what it is.

  Vines and Roses

  My dress is delivered one night before Samhain, while I’m working. I’m glad it got here in time—one less worry to mull over before attending the Wicked Court—but I don’t unwrap it, too eager to get back to Nyx’s journal. It’ll be waiting on the morrow. That’s what matters.

  I’m almost halfway through the journal. My ancestor is in her fiftieth year now—so young for a fae. Something tells me I’m drawing close to the moment that changed everything, the moment when she became the ruler of legend.

  Strange that history hasn’t bothered to remember why a princess of a minor court might have decided to take over all others. They took it for granted that it was greed, the power-hungry nature of the court fae, but everyone has a story.
I love learning hers.

  Nyx’s mother Maeve was neither seelie nor unseelie, hence why she’d chosen a court so close to the northern kingdom. She was born of the seelie queen Una and King Lin, the old lord of the Court of Wind, though they hadn’t been wed. Their passionate and short affair resulted in a boy and a girl—twins, which was rare enough for the fae.

  Una claimed the boy, Tharsen, and Lin took Maeve, who was never meant to rule; he already had two sons, both born unseelie.

  All that mattered to Maeve was indulging in the arts, the beauty of nature, and the wilderness. When her elder brothers murdered and cursed each other, there was no other alternative than to elevate Maeve to her father's throne. She accepted the duty, but never took to it.

  Nyx was impatient with her mother’s caprice, and her utter unsuitability as a ruler. Despite all that, Nyx adored her mother.

  Maeve sounds like my mother; a free spirit not fettered by any kingdom, any crown. I see no ill in my mother’s ways, but I could imagine what it was like for Nyx, who was interested in intrigues and politics. She craved sitting on the throne. She had the power and inclination to do it well.

  And she would. Maeve had been wiped away by history. I've heard her name in passing before, though no one has ever said a thing about her. Even her twin, Tharsen, is more renowned, though he was raised up north in the seelie realm—and then banished to the wilderness for his crimes.

  I want to know how Nyx had come to succeed her mother. Had she been given the crown? Had Maeve died? That I have no idea how it had all unfolded seems preposterous. They are my family. This is the story of my lineage, my house.

  I need to know. It seems important.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

  I haven't heard a step, but Meda is standing at my door, baring her teeth as she approaches my reading nook under the window. “You, young lady, are going to sleep!”

  I’ve never had cause to be this annoyed with her. “I’m no child.”

  “Then you ought to remember you’re entering a lion’s den in less than twelve hours, and you haven’t rested in days. Do you want to put your family through the pain of losing you? You might have said so before. I wouldn’t have bothered wasting my time training you, ungrateful, ridiculous girl!”