Shadow Cursed: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book Two Page 9

  Ina doesn’t seem to care about being polite.

  Liken is her opposite, gallant, all smiles, and well dressed in embroidered velvet, while she wears leather under her cloak.

  Last, the Court of Ash, realm of fire, is ruled by salamanders. The madman settled south and only accepted gentry and lower fae with an affinity for fire in his land. When children were born with magic from another element, they were banished or killed for centuries. Eventually, there only was fire.

  Ash is the only court that never condemned the merging of different classes—they never minded if a common fae married a gentry, so long as they both had fire magic. Another form of discrimination, I suppose.

  Centuries later, we have a unique race, a strange court that doesn’t quite belong with the rest of us. Their king is stocky, pale-green-skinned, and somewhat on the short side. I know that if provoked, he could burn half of Whitecroft before any of us could blink.

  I’ve always been fascinated with Ash—and they don’t dislike me, given that I maintain some control over fire, so long as it’s in the shadows.

  While not quite gentry anymore, and therefore shorter-lived, the salamanders are vicious and ferocious enough to have claimed a throne south of our land in the old days. They knelt to Nyx, as did we all, but my history lessons have taught me that Nyx saved them for last, only attacking them when she had the might of the six other courts behind her.

  Of all elemental fae, the fire users are by far the most lethal.

  But they're few—too few to make a difference in our forces. When Vlari sent news to all the courts, asking them to retreat to Whitecroft to protect them for the invaders, they all had mere hours to act. Being the farthest from Whitecroft, the Court of Ash had less time, and more miles to travel.

  Freeing the rest of their brethren from the usurper’s leash is an alluring idea. They'd make a difference in the battle to come.

  My natural place should be close to Queen Luce of the Court of Star. I was born and raised in her domain, and the Frosts also should have my allegiance; Duke Genrion is the one who elevated me after finding me as a child. But I’ve been made part of the high court, whatever that means. Ignoring propriety, I remain next to Vlari.

  “Nevlaria. We’re all—” Alven looks around the table, his gaze cautioning. “Very glad to see you.”

  She snorts, walking to one of the free seats and taking it. “Let’s dispense with lies. You’re all terrified. I’m terrified. Me being here is terrible news, and bad timing. Let’s move on to discussing what we’re doing about it, shall we?”

  The room lightens up a little. I think I hear Queen Ina whisper to Liken, “I like her.”

  I move to stand behind her, but she gets up, tapping her seat to offer it to me.

  My jaw ticks. I want to refuse it, but every eye in the room is on us, and I feel like getting into an argument about who’s sitting where isn’t the message we want to give today.

  I sit.

  Vlari perches on the armrest, her backside resting against me.

  I can smell her hair—pine wood and cinnamon, a winter scent mixed with something I can’t pinpoint. I can’t get enough. The things this woman does to me.

  I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer to me.

  “I think we can all agree our priority should be reestablishing the shield?” Vlari continues.

  It turns out, we can’t all agree.

  “Yes,” Ciera replies, emphatically nodding her head, while Genrion sighs.

  “We’ve remained hidden for too long, and all the while, our people suffer throughout Tenebris. I say, let’s retake the courts. If you want to play with shields, build one around Tenebris itself—don’t lock us in again.”

  “Locking us in saved our lives,” the young Sandwoman says.

  “Attacking when we’re surrounded by seven courts, each filled with an army, is madness.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe we’ll prevail.” The salamander king sniffs in disgust. “They’re just humans.”

  “Humans with enough iron and manpower to take us all,” Alven points out.

  “We have plenty of weapons in our ranks.” Genrion stands a little prouder. “At least, in mine.”

  “You forget, Frost. The Court of Star isn’t quite yours, now is it?” The Sandwoman smirks, tilting her head toward the queen, who’s still at the window, ignoring us all.

  It’s a mess. I can’t believe our survival is dependent on the power-hungry lot in this room. They’ll never agree, on principle.

  “Where does Stone stand?” the salamander asks, pointedly staring at Ina—he believes her more likely to be on his side.

  Ina ignores him, exchanging a look with Liken.

  “Stone,” Liken says eventually, “has always been a pillar of Tenebris. Thousands of years prior, when Nyx came to us with a vision of a united unseelie folk, we stood with her. And we stand with the high court today.”

  He’s reminding the rulers that the one decision that mattered was the first one they ignored: Ciera’s. A statement about how little power she has.

  “Thank you, Liken—and the rest of you. I have one suggestion.” All eyes are on Vlari—they’re done sniping at each other.

  “Those of you who wish to fight and retake the courts? Go. Do it.” She waves both hands, gesturing them to move. “From what I understand, each of the seven courts have about the same amount of soldiers and resources. If you think our forces as they stand are enough to retake Tenebris, then surely your own forces are enough to take your own courts, are they not?”

  Silence meets her question. The tension in the room is at a peak.

  “Talking of attacking at this point, without anywhere to retreat to, is madness. Suggesting that we could lead assaults at the moment ignores the fact that we have at least a thousand folk who shouldn’t step anywhere near a battlefield. Cooks, children, and poets,” she adds with a grimace.

  A couple of lords laugh, Ina among them.

  She’s good at this. Taking charge, leading the conversation.

  “My question was rhetorical. Our first order of business is shielding Whitecroft as well as we can. Fortunately, we have a plan of sorts in the works. Kazan, what we need from you are your best firebringers—spell a handful of energy stones at once. Understood?”

  I suck in the air, half expecting the king of Ash to explode. I don’t think he’s ever heard an order in his life.

  He looks like he sucked on a lemon, but he nods. Slowly.

  “Good. Have it done by dawn. I’ll see about securing a water elemental stone. Are there any other matters?”

  Alven nods, and lifts a small roll of parchment high enough for all of us to see. “We’ve had a communique from our spy.”

  It’s the first I’ve heard of a spy, but the others don’t seem surprised. It’s no wonder. I can't imagine such knowledge leaves the confinement of these four walls.

  His piercing eyes cut to me, then rest on Vlari. “We have an asset in Violet’s so-called court.”

  Alven passes the note to Ciera, across the painted tree trunk, letting the high queen see it first.

  It never occurred to me that the man had been bowing to his wife, and now to his child—all the while our side was fighting against another one of his progeny. Being Alven Oberon may not be an easy feat. Surrounded by so much power and yet powerless himself.

  Ciera curses out loud, her lovely, graceful mouth spitting out a word that would have my mother hitting the back of my head if I'd said it. Nero extends his hand to take the piece of parchment, but the queen doesn't bother passing it around.

  "What's going on?" Kazan of Ash demands.

  "The usurper's army has raided the Black Woods."

  My eyes widen, both in surprise and in reluctant admiration. If they dared enter the Black Woods, the human army has more courage than I’d believed.

  West of Hardrock, deep in the Court of Stone, the Black Woods is the home to the untamed and shy folk who opted to remain on unseelie ground, rather
than moving north, to the Wilderness. While few, they're the strongest—the wildest of us. They shoot intruders between the eyes first, and ask questions later. Or never.

  "How?" Ciera asks, as startled as I.

  Genrion Frost grimaces. "How do you think?"

  Ciera's eyes narrow at him. His contempt might be directed toward the humans, but he's speaking to the queen. His pointed eartips redden. “There’s only one way. I think they burned it down, and used their explosives to get to a village."

  While it’s no more than a guess, I know it to be true. There’s no other way to take the Black Woods.

  How very human.

  Their contempt and indifference toward nature has rendered their once-beautiful land practically barren, hence their move toward the Alfheimr empire. I believed I couldn't detest them any more, but as usual, they've proved me wrong. The Black Woods was thousands of years old, some of its trees there for longer than any of us, and now they are probably ashes.

  "The spy,” says Ciera, “reports that there are a hundred captives, and that Marren is among them.”

  I know that name, but it takes me a while to place it. It's not the kind of name one expects to hear in conversation about living, breathing people.

  Marren is a legend. A myth. One of the original travelers who'd moved from the Isle to Alfheimr, in order to leave the control of the overlord ruling us in the old continent. Mother sang some of her tales to me as a child. Some books say she is a wayward goddess, others say she's one of the very first fae to ever come into being. A mother to us all.

  "The Marren?" I echo, feeling left out and stupid, because none of the others seem astounded.

  "She leads the elven tribes," Liken casually informs me. “We’ve dealt with her on occasion. She’s ruthless when provoked, but fair and caring. If they were attacked, I'm not surprised she surrendered to protect her people." His gaze cuts to the queen. “We need her for the war to come. If only for her healing powers.”

  Ciera nods. She isn’t sharing the spy’s note, but she tells us, "They're being transported to Hardrock as we speak, where they'll be asked to bend the knee to the usurper. If they don't…" She doesn’t need to finish that sentence. The self-appointed queen is going to make an example out of the shy folk.

  “Marren will never bow to a child playing queen," Genrion states. "She'll never bow to anyone. They'll kill her."

  Ciera shakes her head. "They can't, can they? Marren is as old as time. She'll destroy them all."

  Ina, silent until now, shakes her head. "Marren is old because she's wise and has never been one for war. She's no warrior. There's little she can do. That said, her elves are known for their ferocity. A hundred of them would make a difference among our ranks—their skills as archers could take a city. Once, we apprehended one of theirs for taking our spoils, and they practically seized my keep until we gave him back. They’re that strong.”

  It has been too long since we've had an actual war—infighting between the courts, resolved at the point of a blade or with a challenge, is common enough, but other than the few who joined the army like me, none of the young folk had been trained for it. I may have spent the last ten years training those who want to improve, and they're stronger than any human, but none of that will be enough.

  A hundred archers from the shy folk, who'd been given a bow the moment they could walk? That’s another story. If the legends were true, and they can shoot farther than I can see, we need them. The thought of their joining our ranks has me salivating.

  Genrion Frost leans over the central table, pointing to the map. "The Black Woods’s western flank edges the Court of Mist. North, they bleed into the Murkwood, and east, the high court. It’s going to be too close to Hardrock for comfort.”

  “Not if we move through the western flank,” Vlari says, suddenly a lot more interested than she seemed to be before.

  I can feel her excitement, and I don’t think it has much to do with Marren or her folk, though I could be mistaken.

  “Are the prisoners in the Court of Ichor now?” she asks.

  Her mother nods.

  “Well, to set out on the road to Hardrock, they'll take this path. The only path that can accommodate a hundred prisoners and a number of soldiers.” She follows a trail with the tip of her finger, curving north close to the Murkwood. “Once they reach the capital, we have no chance, but on the road…well. I say we stand a chance.”

  Ina nods. “I’ll lead the rescue,” she offers. “Though they’ll never accept it, the shy folk are part of the Court of Ichor. They’re my people.”

  No one argues.

  “We know our kingdom more than the humans, for one. That said, we have no details about the number of soldiers we'll have to face as of yet. It’s a gamble, but it may be worth it."

  A considerable gamble. To move a hundred elves, even bound, gagged, weaponless, and exhausted, the humans had to take five, ten times as many soldiers.

  How many fae will we lose if things go wrong?

  The salamander says exactly that. "It may be too much of a risk. We could lose all our fighters, all to recover a hundred archers."

  “A hundred excellent archers,” Vlari says. “I think it’s worth it.”

  That’s the end of it. If we have to slave over the map for hours until we have a plan, we will.

  I frown, looking at the path just south of the border between Mist and Ichor. I know that place; I was sent to train there when I first enlisted in Genrion’s forces. I loved it there. Freezing in the winter, enchanting in the summer, the mountains were a delight.

  "What if we didn't ambush them?" I surprise myself. I'd no plan to say anything out loud. I don't even have a plan—just the shadow of an idea.

  Now, everyone is looking at me, and I have to either look like an idiot, or explain myself. And probably look like an idiot either way. "That area is dangerous—hence why no one lives there. The army uses it as training ground because of the frequent earthquakes. We're trained to find shelter and survive in those circumstances, but it'd surprise me if the humans were. There are caves in these mountains, along the path where we could hide. It could be possible to start a landslide here."

  The queen of Ichor frowns. “This isn’t on their way. It’s south of the path they’re likely to take.”

  “A landslide up these mountains will take the entire valley,” I promise. “There are spells and wards to prevent it.”

  I look to Genrion for confirmation. The duke nods. “It may be doable.”

  One of the four knights behind the king of Ash asks, hopeful, “Do we need to blow up anything?" He shrugs when we turn to him.

  Vlari grins. “We’ll more than likely need a few explosions.”

  His smile broadens, like the princess offered him a present wrapped with a pretty white bow. “It’s been a few quiet years. I’ll tag along, if you’ll have me.”

  His king doesn’t seem happy at all, but he doesn’t protest either.

  “While your plan could work, it could also endanger the elves," Nero says quietly.

  His mother, the ferocious pixie my sister idolizes since she saved my family ten years ago, snorts. "Right. A landslide and a bit of an earthquake killing elves. Let the adults talk, boy."

  Nero doesn't seem offended. "I'm just saying, there may be injured or weaker captives who will need our assistance."

  I can't tell whether he's just naive, or willfully obtuse. Of course, not all of our people will make it. It's not expected. Whatever way we choose to do this, there will be casualties. They are acceptable losses, when the alternative is to let them all die at the hand of the false queen.

  This is war, not a children’s tale.

  There are no miracle solutions where all of the folk end up safe, sound, and free. It’s just a matter of picking the path that offers the least amount of death on our side, and the most on theirs.

  Unless…

  "Vlari," I say, redirecting the attention of the room to me for the second time. “You ca
n feed from life force, and redistribute it."

  The lower kings and queens exchange uncomfortable glances. None of them like the idea of a Void among us. Power over life and death is too much in the hands of one individual. Vlari can make us all kneel, regardless of her intentions, just like Nyx had. But whether they approve or not, there is no denying what she can do.

  "Are you suggesting she be part of the rescue? That’s out of the question. The princess needs to stay here, safe.”

  “She’s the last of her line! If the queen were to pass, what then?”

  I’m ignoring the Sandwoman and the king of Ash, my attention on the woman perched on my armrest. She grins. “Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll assist from a reasonable distance.”

  The room bursts into an uproar of protests, coming from everywhere and everyone.

  It seems they still don’t understand that she’ll choose what she does.

  She stands up and leans over the tree trunk.

  “My presence will limit the casualties, and cover our retreat. I am going. This isn’t up for debate.”

  "No." The queen straightens her spine. "We can't risk you getting involved and losing some energy in the process. Not because I want to smother you. Because you’re needed in the war to come. It's too much of a risk.”

  “Is it?” Nero places his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We know precious little of Vlari’s power. It hasn't been seen since Nyx, and it's seldom mentioned in any texts. An injection of energy could be just what she needs, and she isn’t likely to feed off us. Facing a few enemies might be necessary.”

  “What if we are attacked?” Ciera argues.

  “Right now, without a shield, without archers? We’re doomed anyway. I’d much prefer if Vlari was north, then.”

  I can tell the queen hates this with a passion, but she knows we’re right. If there's any way we can get an edge, we need to consider it.

  “I need to go north, Mother,” Vlari says, holding her gaze.