Shadow Cursed: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book Two Read online

  Shadow Cursed

  A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book Two

  May Sage

  Shadow Cursed

  May Sage © 2020

  Edited by Theresa Schultz

  Proofread by Cara Quinlan

  Art by Ina Wong

  Typography by Arel B. Grant of BZN Studio

  Logo by The Book Brander Design

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Map

  1. Shadow of Tenebris

  2. Stone Cold

  3. Promises

  4. Worth the Risk

  5. Deep Down the Hole

  6. Fire and Water

  7. A Taste of History

  8. The Price of Time

  9. Will of the Queen

  10. Out of Breath

  11. Under the Stars

  12. A Circle of Crowns

  13. The Queen’s Fool

  14. Starved

  15. Shadows at the Gates

  16. Land of Sea

  17. The Price

  18. Lost in Stars

  19. March North

  20. The Ashes of Ichor

  21. Darker Woods

  22. Fair Folk

  23. Salt and Iron

  24. The Last Stand

  25. Tastes of Power

  26. Secrets and Lies

  27. The Void

  28. Songs of Tenebris

  Epilogue

  Next in Álfheimr

  More from May Sage

  Whatever our souls are made of,

  His and mine are the same.

  —Emily Brontë

  Map

  Shadow of Tenebris

  Drusk

  Once, the fae woods were alive with malice, laughter, and schemes, but gone are the days of the folk. Trolls and boggarts no longer hunt shadows of the night. No hag wanders the darkness, lying in wait to ensnare a maiden and eat her heart whole. The goblins returned to their hills, and the aven hide in burrows.

  Tenebris is a land of men.

  For now.

  The bodies of the four mortals at my feet incite no feeling in me. No excitement, no contentment. I remember I used to enjoy causing pain to those I deemed deserving of it. I loved the hunt. I even loved the kill. Such is the nature of the blood running through my veins; beneath layers of sophistication, we unseelie will always be instruments of chaos and destruction.

  Now there’s nothing but a void. An emptiness. I killed these mortals because they were in my way. I killed them because I had to, without feeling a hum of pleasure or desire.

  One of the most inconvenient human qualities is that they tend to swarm like locusts. Destroy a handful, and a dozen pop up in their place. Before I have time to wipe the blood off my sword, I sense company nearing. I curse under my breath, unhooking my bow from my back to shoot the mortals approaching from a distance.

  “Look up!” Iola yells behind me.

  I don’t bother. The day I can’t feel an oncoming gunshot is the day I’m no longer Rystan Drusk. The gunpowder humans use stinks of charred metal, and the air around it vibrates in an unnatural way.

  I don’t know where most of my heritage comes from. What I do know is that Mysts are the children of the air. As its master, I am one with the night.

  Before the human weapon finds its way into whichever piece of my flesh it would have lodged, I disappear into the shadows.

  I reappear next to Iola and Erdun, a few hundred paces ahead of where I was. “Do you have it?” I demand.

  My companion nods, pointing to the satchel on her hip.

  “Go, then,” I say. “I’ll delay them.”

  Iola frowns, and then shakes her head. “We can’t. Lesson one: no one is ever left behind. Remember?”

  The thing I forgot is that today is her first mission outside of the walls of Whitecroft.

  Erdun laughs, tugging on Iola’s sleeve. “That rule applies to everyone except him. Come on, greenie. He’s Shadow. He’ll be fine. The faster we are, the sooner he can join us.”

  Shadow. That name almost manages to get a reaction out of me, but I ignore the chill running along my skin.

  Iola lets the other ranger tug her forward, and they start their run to the southeast, only looking back once.

  I’m glad I included her in today’s rescue. She may be greener than some, but she’s ready. And the gods of heaven and hell know we need as many rangers venturing beyond our sanctuary as possible, if we’re ever to reclaim what’s ours.

  Ten years ago, when Tenebris was invaded by human scum led by a traitorous usurper, I volunteered to train those who wanted to help. Our army was all but decimated in the attack preceding our retreat. While naturally agile and stronger than any mortal, the folk weren’t fighters, per se, and they knew nothing of discipline. I used to be a soldier, in another life. I figured my training should be passed on.

  Almost a thousand folk have suffered through my lessons. They hate me, curse my name. One or two have begged me to kill them when I work on their endurance. But unlike the hotheads who believed they didn’t need any training, unlike the few soldiers who came with us, every single one of them is still alive today.

  I haven’t taught them obedience or any such things the armies used to require of me. I taught them to survive.

  They’re each a bit of hope for our kingdom. For our race. If I can do nothing else, I’ll endeavor to keep hope alive for those who still have some.

  My actions don’t matter; I realize that. There are a hundred thousand humans in our lands. More arrive every day. They’ve cut down woods and built settlements through our home. They’ve claimed it. They even renamed it. No trickery, no spell, no curse can will that many mortals into nothingness, and those are the true weapons of the folk.

  It’d take a miracle to claim it back, with so few warriors among us.

  I’ve long since ceased to believe in miracles.

  I wait in the shadows of my Myst, invisible to the eyes of any fae. As humans are blind at the best of times, they see only a fog in front of them, and don’t even sense that anything is wrong until it’s far too late.

  I let them approach, silent and immobile. I am a spider, and like the insects they are, they’re too easily caught in my web. When the dozen men are within reach, I strike, turning the world into fire all around me, scorching their flesh with blue flames. They dance all around me, tickling my skin.

  The humans scream—some have the presence of mind to roll on the ground, others run away. None of that will help. They’ll stop suffering if and when I allow them to.

  I hear the rest of their regiment advance, entirely focused on me rather than following after my companions. That’s the way I like it.

  My parents and sister unfortunately don’t see it in the same light. The last time she shouted at me, Ma called me suicidal.

  She’s wrong…and right. I’m not suicidal. I am already dead, the heart in the cavity of my chest long frozen. I care for them still. I care about the future of Tenebris—for I’ll never call our land anything else. I care about making the humans pay for taking our lands.

  For all that, passion, desire, enjoyment have left me. I am a shell of the man I used to be. I’m sorry it pains my family. I’m not sorry it has turned me into Shadow. A monster who can put himself in the line of fire without a care. I am a weapon; one of our only weapons in a losing war.

  The humans rush to aid their companions, and fire extends to the rest of them as they enter my web.

  “Stay away from the monster—we need to kill him from a distance! Archers, lances, on my command! The sorcerer—”

  Monster. I suppose that’s what I am. Not because of any of
my abilities. I’m a monster because I can take lives without letting it matter to me. I’m a monster because I don’t feel. I’m a monster because of her.

  I move too fast for any mortal eyes to see, taking a small knife I made a week ago in my grasp and throwing it. The leader’s words die when the blade sails through his throat. Watching him fall off his black warhorse, the lieutenant at his side freezes in horror, realizing his commander's death means he’s now in charge. Which would make him the next corpse on the blood-soaked moss.

  If I were still who I used to be, there would be another knife flying through the night. I’d kill for the sake of it, again and again. But it’s a pointless endeavor. Crunching locusts is a child’s game. More will spring up in an instant. What I need is for them to leave, ensuring Iola and Erdun’s safe return.

  I let him choose his fate, watching him as he stares at me, sizing me up.

  “Fall back! Fall back to the Court! On my lead.”

  Some mortals are smarter than others.

  I retract my fire, letting those who aren’t yet dead extinguish. Burning them wouldn’t provide so much as a smidgen of satisfaction or entertainment, and it wouldn’t do to use up more energy than necessary.

  Myst, like any power, is taxing on the mind. I’d hate to have to sleep before the end of the night. It’d worry Ma and Neb. Besides, I mislike fatigue. There are always things to do in Whitecroft. Young folk to train, fields to plan, swords to sharpen.

  Pa understands, I think. He doesn’t say much, unlike the females in my family, but sometimes, I catch looks he sends my way when he doesn’t think I’m paying him any mind. He touches my shoulder for too long, or sighs when he watches me.

  That’s worse than shouting. I see him mourning his son, though I’m right in front of his eyes. He knows part of me is gone, buried inside Whitecroft Hall.

  Buried right next to Nevlaria Bane.

  I don’t know why I took the loss of Vlari so hard. Perhaps she represented amusement and freedom to me. Perhaps it’s something else entirely.

  I make my way back to the dome of light stretching over hectares, engulfing all of Whitecroft’s extensive grounds under Vlari’s protection.

  I would never have thought that Whitecroft was intended to be used as a fortress. It was nothing but a school for the richest of the folk, or the gentry with lines dating back to the Old World. Pretty, ill-defended, but overall useless. Vlari’s spell turned it into the most impregnable area of Alfheimr. Our enemies tried everything. Magic, explosives, armies. Our walls are only opened to the folk.

  As I approach, the shimmering golden barrier parts right in front of me to let me pass. I never quite understood how it works. The others say that sometimes, the walls remain closed; it generally means there’s an enemy nearby that they need to dispatch before being allowed through. The spells woven into our shields are quite beyond me.

  They’ve never failed to open for me. Perhaps because no enemy is stupid enough to follow me.

  Seconds after I’m allowed in, I see the wall open again at my right, a few paces away.

  Frowning, I approach it.

  There should be no other party of rangers coming in tonight, and my companions should have arrived ahead of me.

  No enemy has ever made it through the barrier, but I am on my guard all the same.

  Someone comes through—almost a child, not much younger than my sister. I only have to take one glance at her to know her story. She’s emaciated, out of breath, and her dilated pupils betray the ordeal she’s been through.

  She’s one of the courageous souls who have managed to make their way to us by themselves. Over the years, the ranger parties venturing outside of Whitecroft have managed to rescue a number of folk, bringing them to us, but rare are the fae who’ve made it on their own.

  None of them were children as young as she.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask her.

  She’s unlucky I’m the one who found her. I’ve never been accused of gentleness. I read fear in her eyes as she takes me in, and I don’t attempt to defuse it.

  I don’t detect any wounds, but I don’t like making assumptions.

  The girl shivers, but she shakes her head. I’m glad of it. I’m capable of administering basic remedies when the circumstances call for it, but I’m not much of a healer.

  She needs something warm to eat, and a place to sleep. She probably also needs someone to speak to, and that someone isn’t me, so I gesture behind me. “Choose your court. You’ll be cared for.”

  The lower kings and queens of Tenebris have found refuge in Whitecroft, with a part of their courts. As we could hardly all fit inside the building that used to be our school, we’ve built seven halls, with small but comfortable apartments, each representing our seven courts. Ash, Mist, Stars, Storm, Silt, Ichor, and Stone. Whitecroft Hall itself houses the royalty, and whatever is left of our government—the leaders of our armies, our politicians, our lawmakers.

  The one good thing to come of our ordeal is the fact that we aren’t defined by where we were born. Not anymore.

  Before, a fae born in the Court of Stars could only join another court if the king or queen requested it. For the first time in generations, we’ve been able to choose where we belong.

  My family was born at the border between Stars and Mist—technically on Stars lands. They’ve chosen to remain with the Court of Stars, in order to be close to their friends.

  I haven’t chosen. Not officially. I sleep in my parents’ quarters, though my position means I could have an apartment of my own, should I request it.

  Requesting lodgings would mean actually picking a court. A lord. I can’t bring myself to kneel to anyone. I don’t believe in the lords of Tenebris. Had they been powerful, we wouldn’t be stuck behind these walls, cowering before mortals. I don’t trust them. I don’t respect any of them. None of the elders, none of the queens, none of the warriors saved us.

  Vlari did.

  Vlari, who’s little more than a child to the folk. As the gentry don’t fade with age, we’re considered too young for responsibility under the age of a hundred years. Vlari wasn’t even seventy when she placed herself between us and immortals, with none of the lower monarchs by her side.

  Just me and her grandfather. Another lord I don’t quite trust.

  And she paid for their inability to protect us.

  I don’t think I can ever forgive the kings and queens of Tenebris for their helplessness. Their weakness. They’ve lost my respect, and how could I serve a leader I don’t respect?

  I can only kneel to a power greater than my own.

  “What about the girl of light?” the child asks, making me stop in my tracks.

  A girl of light? I try to make sense of the words. I might have been too quick to dismiss her injuries. It sounds like she hit her head too hard. Before I can ask a few pointed questions, the child carries on. “The pixie with purple hair. She helped me get away. Is she still out there?”

  I turn to face her, watching her eyes, scanning for the first sign of a lie.

  And suddenly, the void is gone. The emptiness, the lack of feeling that has been my constant companion. I am fire. I am rage.

  If she’s lying to me, I’ll take great pleasure in making her suffer.

  A pixie.

  Pixies are creatures of the seelie courts. The legends say that they’re the children of gentry and the shy folk of the wilderness, given the beauty of one race and the bloodthirsty ferocity of the other. They moved to settle south of the wilderness centuries ago, and bowed to the high queen of Denarhelm. When the line of the queen failed, they founded a lower court.

  There may be a handful of pixies scattered across Tenebris, but I know of only three within the walls of Whitecroft. A full-blooded female. Her half-blood son. The son’s daughter. A quarter-blooded pixie, yet so dainty and small her origins can’t be denied. She blends the features of a gentry with those of the pixie, managing to look almost innocent, like an ingénue. A neat trick for th
e most powerful fae among us.

  Only one of them has purple hair—violet at the tips, gray at the roots.

  The shade of the royal line, running through the entire bloodline of Nyx.

  Vlari.

  I say one word to the exhausted, terrified girl I can’t bring myself to reassure. “Talk.”

  Stone Cold

  Drusk

  I move like a puppet held up with strings, going through the motions. I call guards and send them out, because it’s protocol. Then I wait. For endless seconds, minutes, or hours, I wait. Then I listen to them, nod, and return to my base.

  I teach the folk at the edge of the marshes. I chose the spot knowing I’d stay out of the way—nothing flourishes so close to the damp swamps, except for kappas and redcaps. It’s far enough away from the halls to avoid accidents when our lessons don’t go according to plan. That is, every other day. Accidental fires and explosions are part of our routine.

  One day, months into our confinement, a building popped up overnight. I still don’t know who is responsible for building it. My students, any of the lords, the high queen herself. I never bothered to ask. It’s a simple one-story structure with a few studies, a library, and a large training area—useful for our purposes.

  One day, a general walked in and asked me which of my students could be sent out of Whitecroft. We’d survived a few years rationing the extensive Whitecroft pantry, thanks to the way of the folk with nature. Give us one dying apple tree, and by the end of a song, it’ll bear a hundred ripe fruits, sweet to the tongue and ready for picking. For all that, we needed seeds, for hay and wheat. We needed pigs and horses. Our healers needed some herbs, too. The task had been taken on by knights at first, but some never returned, and those left weren’t enough to provide for everyone in our fortress. Our city.