Wicked Court: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book One

by Sage, May

  “You could get married.” His words stun me, entirely unexpected. “To someone of your choosing, before there’s any oath or agreement binding you.”

  I have nothing to say, at first. Then, I chuckle, rolling my eyes. “Right. Because Morgana wouldn’t find my lucky new husband, rip him apart, and do as she pleases in any case?”

  “Not necessarily. She didn’t do it with your mother, right? I think it might be perceived as lack of propriety by other lords.”

  Wanting to argue, I ponder his words, letting them marinate.

  How would Morgana react to my slipping through her fingers? Not well, that’s for sure, but would she spill blood over it? She hasn’t with my mother, and she was more invested in marrying Ciera well. In my case, she just wants me away from her—preferably kingdoms away, buried in the undersea.

  I remember I jested about marrying Esea a few weeks back. Maybe I should have.

  It’d be dangerous. For me and whatever fool I link to my fate.

  As seconds pass in silence, I start to accept there’s a degree of wisdom in Drusk’s words; at least, they aren’t complete madness.

  I could ask Dekren, though I don’t think I’d like being under the thumb of the elder Thorn. Besides, his uncle Genrion would never allow it without the queen’s blessing. Perhaps Wilden. I wouldn’t mind being a Frost, and I doubt Lera would see any objection.

  I titter, a wild idea crossing my fancy. “And you owe me a favor. I could shackle you.”

  “I can’t say I dislike shackles, ordinarily, but in this matter, I think I’d rather remain free to make my choice, princess. You’d have to seduce me. Very well.”

  “Or make some amoria.” He’s easy to tease tonight. Easy to speak to. I don’t know what has changed, but I can’t deny something has. “I recall that worked on you once.”

  “Once. Never again, princess. You’ll have to ply me with kisses and promises.”

  I laugh again. “Kisses and promises are all it’d take to risk your neck?”

  “I risk my neck most days. Give me half a reason, and I’ll do it again. Gladly.”

  Perhaps it is simply that I now stand in my enemy’s palace; in the wake of Morgana’s presence, I feel that he and I aren’t antagonists after all. We aren’t allies either. We’re something else, something I can’t define. We clash, but I am not scared of him. I don’t think he wishes me ill.

  I could be wrong. I decide to let time tell.

  “Enough foolishness. Let’s find somewhere to wait out the rest of this nightmare.”

  Drusk offers me his elbow, and I take it. We walk in pleasant silence, leaving the revels behind.

  Thread of Blood

  I wake well after twilight, my head heavy with dances, honey mead, the sound of violins. Despite the already growing headache, I’m smiling like an idiot.

  I did it. I survived Samhain. I may not even have angered the queen last night. I haven’t spurned the man she obviously picked for me; not exactly. He seemed to have understood I have little interest in him without my having to delineate. But I only danced with him once, before disappearing with Drusk. We talked in the antechamber until the end of the revels.

  At my window, there’s another carcass—a rabbit, this time. At least Rattafer didn’t find that one soaking my bench. I may have gained an enemy daring enough to enter my room, but it’s not a very smart one, if they think I will be spooked by a little blood.

  I don’t bathe, needing to exert myself after the stress and worry that has preceded the revel. I leap out the window and extend my wings, like a wayward child.

  My night clothes, like most of my undershirts, are cut to allow for their size. I wouldn’t be the first fae to spread her wings during a nightmare—or a very nice dream, for that matter.

  Some of the gentry, descendants from the old air courts, bear the wings of great, proud birds. The lesser fae are of different stock; we have insectile wings. The wings of beetles or mosquitos, for the imps and bogs blessed with the ability to fly. I’ve heard that some sprites can have dragonfly wings. For pixies, it’s either moths or butterflies. Wings that fly as swiftly as those of a tiny little butterfly, but as tall as a pixie’s—they allow us to move too fast for even the folk to see, here and there in the blink of an eye.

  Flying isn’t what one would call a civilized pursuit. It is the affair of war; the soldiers of the crown learn to defend our land by any means, spreading their wings to protect us if they must. It’s also the affair of lovers, fleeing in the dead of the night to protect each other’s secrets.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been taught how to fly, but I’ve always known how. I’ve always craved it.

  Tonight, I give in to the longing. I glide along the dark sinuous forest at the border of our land—near Mithgarth. I soar above lakes and groves, hills, and burrows. I let myself breathe, truly breathe.

  I’m alive. I’m alive, and yesterday, I was in control. I may still manage to control my fate, despite the shadow of the queen. And if she marries me off to the prince of the sea, well, I’ll be far away from her, down under water, where she can’t reach. Lind didn’t seem cruel, or smart enough to get in my way. He was enjoyable, even.

  And malleable. He’s afraid to break me; I could manipulate him to leave me alone.

  It could be worse. Everything could be worse. But the very thought of being dragged to the sea makes bile rise in my throat.

  I cannot submit to that fate. I will not. Drusk is right, I can weasel my way out of it.

  And if I keep thinking about Drusk as a potential victim, more the fool I. He’s clearly said he didn’t want me. I could still force his will because of the favor he owes me, but I won’t condemn us to a century of misery. I have to ask a friend.

  Someone simple, willing, and easy.

  The last things I desire in a companion, but this union would be about survival, not desire.

  Drusk would not be malleable. There would be no making a toy of him. Toying with him? Definitely. Not against him.

  I’d never break Drusk, even if I tried.

  And I wouldn’t. I’d know better.

  I don’t think he could break me either. We’d challenge each other.

  Inside the heart of every unseelie fae, there’s a wickedness, a desire to take and twist and set things on fire. I’ve felt it all my life. I’ve snuffed it out.

  With Drusk, I take. I twist. I burn. I scream and insult. I let myself be who I could have been without my bonds.

  And he likes it.

  I’m swaying through the clouds when I see a fire in the woods below. A wild, reckless fire, destroying everything in its wake. It’s close to home.

  Spotting movements through the foliage, I plunge down. If there’s wingless folk or beasts down there, I can be of assistance. I can help put it out, too.

  As I near, the sound of steel crashing against steel, screams of battle, and the smell of fresh blood hit me. This is no ordinary fire. We’re under attack.

  I let my wings retract under my skin so that they don’t burn, and land high on a tree, close to the fire. My eyes pierce the smoke and flame, and I see them. Soldiers in foreign colors, screaming with vigor and cheer as they cut through folk.

  Common folk, not our knights. They’re slaughtering defenseless people.

  I leap to the ground and contour the fire to meet them.

  My heart sinks. Now that my vision isn’t hindered, I see hundreds and hundreds of soldiers—if not thousands. I can’t quite believe it. If all the courts were to raise one army, they’d have fewer warriors than those in front of me.

  I advance all the same, though I’m just in my night gown, without any weapons or armor.

  I’m almost at the edge of the village they’re slaughtering their way through when I hear horses approach. I spin on my heel, adopting a defensive position, but I recognize the riders.

  “Meda.” My grandmother leads our knights.

  “Mh,” she says, eyeing me with something that looks a little lik
e approval. “Looks like your training didn’t quite go to waste.”

  “Give me a sword. I can help.”

  “You can help evacuate the nearing villages, and the woods,” she counters. “Someone must, and you’re not dressed for war.”

  I want to argue, but I don’t. She’s right, someone must, and it’s logical that the someone should be me. I’m faster than the rest of our knights, and less schooled in the way of battles.

  I rush to all of our nearby settlements, screaming at the top of my lungs to get the folk moving. “Where to?” they ask. There’s only one place defendable here—our home, so I tell them to go to the Court of Mist.

  I tell myself Meda will win, that she’ll push them back, but there were so many soldiers, and fierce as she is, she’s just one person, with a dozen knights.

  After making my way through every village, I return home, passing through the forest, to get whatever animals I can find to move the right way.

  Hundreds of paws follow my steps. One catches my attention, smoothly running in the shadows of the branches overhead.

  A wyr. They don’t live here, so far from the Murkwood. It’s a wyrfox, not unlike the one I saw a month ago, though older, as it’s entirely black.

  When it leaps at the last row of trees, and lands right at my feet, I realize that it’s not like the one who’d tried to eat me. It’s the very one. I recognize his essence, and his eyes.

  Then I think back to the random carcasses on my windows.

  I shake my head, confused.

  I saved its life in the Murkwood. It could be feeling grateful, but it’s not in the nature of a wyr.

  Watching him, I understand. “You’re mine.”

  I’ve been given a familiar, though I’m no one to the land—not a lady, or a true royal.

  I don’t have time to wonder at it.

  “Well, if you understand me, get in the house. Stay safe.” And it must understand me, because it obeys my order.

  I’ve only reached the threshold when I feel a sense of panic explode in my chest, knocking me over.

  I can barely breathe. I can barely think. My head is on fire, and the pain in my side, right under my ribs, feels like I’ve been stabbed with iron.

  I’m dying. I must be dying to feel this broken.

  Nothing has hurt me, hit me, but I know that something inside me, a huge part of my soul, has been destroyed.

  I need to go. I know exactly where, and at the same time, I don’t know at all. I can feel it, a thread pulling me like I’m fish on a line.

  I don’t have a choice. I follow it.

  Court of Wind

  I run.

  I run fast, staying low on the ground. My feet hit the mossy forest floor, and I think of all of my grandmother’s lessons, everything I’ve heard the Whitecroft tutors tell other students—those who were allowed physical exertion.

  The first lesson in war was simple. Never be taken by surprise.

  We would have been wiser to expect an attack at all times. Be prepared for it. Dressed for it. Armed for it.

  I’m in a stupid flowing night gown, and without so much as a sharp knife to protect me.

  Taking to the sky is too risky; their archers might be poor marksmen, but my wings would make for a big, bright target.

  My heartbeats thunder in my ears as I hear marching soldiers all around me—their steel and iron clashes, closing in.

  I have to get where I should be. I have to. I can’t die now. I’m not permitted to.

  I could have died yesterday, but I didn’t. I could have died a month ago, but I didn’t. If the queen of Tenebris hadn’t ordered my end, these idiots aren’t allowed to commandeer it. The fact that there is an entire army of idiots is irrelevant.

  I will not fall.

  Not here. My journey can’t be over, because I am needed elsewhere. I have to get home.

  Not to the Court of Mist, not to my parents.

  Somewhere else is calling me. Crying for me. Screaming my name, so loud I can’t tune it out.

  Vlari. Vlari. Vlari.

  I belong to that voice, and I have to get there.

  Now.

  My next footfall doesn’t hit where I expect it to; tripping forward, I roll over the asphalt of an evenly paved road. Though familiar, it takes me a while to realize where I am.

  In Hardrock; right in front of the queen’s keep, at the edge of the drawbridge.

  Nowhere near the forest. Nowhere near home. I turn around, dizzy and confused. Everything around me is clouded over with a dark, thick mist.

  I cough, bringing my sleeve to my nose to protect my airway.

  Myst.

  I’d been transported here, right to the gates of the castle, but the warded gates would have prevented anyone from appearing inside.

  There is only one person who could summon me like this: Drusk. There hasn’t been another Myst in generations; it’s assumed he is the only one alive.

  The thick fog starts to dissipate. I turn on my heels, looking for him, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Over the beats of my heart, I start to hear the racket of a battle; steel on steel, screams and battle cries, explosions.

  What is going on? That an army has reached my home in the west makes sense, but how could they have gotten here, to the heart of the unseelie territory, so fast?

  There are only two possibilities. They’ve either come from the north, through seelie land, or from the east—the sea. They couldn’t have done that without the blessing of the Sea Court.

  I think back to yesterday. Why had the queen invited the sea folk at all? She has nothing but contempt for anything, anyone who isn’t gentry.

  I start to understand the pattern of events that brought us here. Events I’d shown no interest in.

  The attack Drusk survived. The uncharacteristic diplomacy. It has all been because of this—because we’ve already been at war, though she hasn’t warned any of us.

  And now, Hardrock is burning.

  I spin around to face the royal caves, residence of the queen, of the gentry. If I pass through those gates, I’ll be safe, and I am so very close.

  But the city is burning.

  The Light Market. The street of cloth, with Ma’am Rolo’s store. The residence of the Frosts, and the Thorns, and everyone else I know. Everyone else who owes me. Everyone I own.

  My city.

  My people.

  Folk I’ve talked to, bargained with. Folk I like, folk I enjoy teasing, folk who delight in teasing me.

  They are the ones suffering down below.

  A scream pierces through the cacophony of the battle, through the darkness, louder than a banshee’s screech. A scream carrying words in a tongue older than me, older than the queen and her keep. It takes a while to realize it came from me.

  Come to me, it said, both to my friends and foe. A threat and an invitation.

  When my lungs are empty of air, I finally stop, my throat burning. I’m out of breath, and I take a second to still myself.

  A second is all I have.

  The city is quiet now, and all eyes are on the castle.

  On me.

  I’m stunned by the realization I’ve just doomed myself. Given away my position, and dared anyone to come get me.

  I could still fall back. Ten steps are all it’d take—I’d reach the doors.

  The first wave of armed soldiers wearing foreign colors bawls out, darting to me. I can’t even tell how many of them move.

  Ten steps.

  Safety.

  That’s all it’d take.

  While I deliberate my next course of action, I realize that while numerous, my would-be assassins are…slow. Awkward.

  Human.

  I’ve never hated humans; not like some of us do. I pity their short lives, their lack of wisdom, their obsession with a level of perfection most of them will never come close to reaching. And I don’t hate these soldiers either. They’re cannon fodder. Underfed, underqualified, sent to be slaughtered while thei
r lords reap the reward. Hundreds of thousands of them were sent to die today, to kill a thousand fae. To eradicate the Wicked Court.

  The Court of Wind, home to Nyx, home to my blood.

  When the first human reaches me, swinging his great sword to strike me, I’m still in the same spot.

  I lift my hand right as his blade falls down.

  My fingers close into a tight fist and I smile.

  The human screams, but not for long.

  I’m not trying to make them back down as I did with the wyrfox. I’m not after his suffering, or his submission.

  All I claim is his life, and that of all of the others running up the drawbridge, in one simple, decisive movement of my hand.

  They collapse as one.

  An explosion of energy bursts into me, almost strong enough to knock me out.

  So many lives. So much…

  Power.

  I’ve taken their power.

  I smile.

  I take the sword that would have cut me in two from the dead man’s grasp. It’s a plain, uneven blade without much grace—I doubt it’s even been named. It’ll do anyway.

  Ignoring all of my instincts that scream at me, demanding I return to the castle, I make my way down the bridge, to the city.

  My call has brought more than enemies toward the castle. In the chaos, I see folk, trying to fight their way through the human army.

  There’s too many of them, and as they mingle with fae, I can’t use my power again. It doesn’t matter. I have a sword, and thanks to Meda, I know how to use it.

  Meda. I think of home, for one moment—of the army heading for them. But being distracted on the battlefield is one sure way to end up dead. All that matters now, here, is the next human at the point of my blade.

  Screams. Blood. Sorrow. For every fae they kill, we destroy ten of them, but each fae life means something to me. The humans are just puppets of blood and flesh, invaders I refuse to see as more than inconvenient fleas.

  Yet, I’m losing against them. I’m losing the people. My people. My folk. They’re more mine than they’ve ever been Morgana’s. She isn’t the one who goes to markets and negotiates with pucks. I am. Some of them owe me, others respect me. I know them, and they know my name.