A Court Bright and Broken (Age of Fae #1)

1. Hungry Fox

Chapter 1

Hungry Fox

S tellon

My heart thumped a little harder than normal, but I wasn’t that worried about getting caught.

No one in the palace woke early—well, no one but the servants, and they weren’t going to stop me.

They were too afraid to even speak to me, much less question my comings and goings.

A few of the chambermaids cast surreptitious glances as I passed them in the vast hallways. I was in my riding boots and breeches to throw off any suspicion should any of my family defy expectations and rise early.

When I reached the stables, the finely stitched breeches, hand-tooled leather riding coat, pressed linen shirt, and shiny black boots came off.

Reaching behind a loose board at the back of Malo’s stall, I drew out a gunny sack containing a very different set of garments. Ones that would help me blend in.

My nose wrinkled as I hurriedly pulled on the frayed and stained pants and scratchy, loose homespun tunic, topped by a hooded cloak that was too light for the weather, not that I’d notice the cold.

After so many wearings, the clothes were beginning to smell a bit foul.

But that was a good thing where I was going. I didn’t want anyone to get too close. The whole point was to deflect attention, to disguise my identity.

To be left alone as I accomplished my task.

If Malo noticed the ripeness of my attire, he didn’t mention it. Tucking the sack containing my supplies into his saddle bag, I went around to pet his face and give him the carrot I’d brought along.

“Good morning, my friend,” I said, stroking his shiny dark brown cheeks and velvety nose. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

The large thoroughbred stallion just nudged me in a return greeting and finished his treat. He began stamping in eagerness to get going.

I laughed and mounted the saddle. “I know, I know. Me too. Let’s get out of here and have some fun.”

When we left the stables, I didn’t even have to guide him. Malo knew this routine, repeated weekly for the past several months. He trotted briskly to the well worn road leading away from Seaspire Castle then broke into a gallop once we reached bare dirt.

With every stride, I felt lighter in the saddle, and the tightness in my chest loosened. It was as if the air surrounding my family’s palatial home was somehow heavier than it was outside the estate.

By the time we reached the outskirts of the Rough Market, I was practically floating.

Malo liked these excursions as well. He nickered, anticipating the crisp apples he knew were coming his way at the end of my visit to the marketplace. For now, he’d have to wait here, a safe distance away.

If I was going to pass as a poor peasant, it wouldn’t do to be spotted riding one of the finest steeds in the land.

The Rough Market was no place for a prince—at least that was what my father would say.

Full of ruffians and pickpockets, it was the busiest human gathering place in upper Marinus. Probably the most hazardous as well—for them and for Fae folk.

But it was also full of craftsmen and women selling their wares, food vendors calling out temptations to the browsing shoppers, street musicians playing for coins–generally the widest variety of humanity to be found anywhere near the palace grounds.

It was full of life . And that was what I sought to capture.

Removing my sketching pencils and drawing paper from the saddlebag, I tied Malo’s reins to a sapling in a stand of trees surrounded by fresh grass, promising to return soon before setting off on foot to the market.

The familiar sounds of the place reached me before I even caught sight of the rough wooden stalls.

Erected side by side, they covered around forty acres and sold nearly any product you could imagine—textiles and ready-made clothing, buttons, hats, boots, tools and kitchenware, spices for cooking, cheese, fresh fish, produce, meat, ale and other spirits, and cheap potions their hawkers claimed could do anything from shine your silver to enhance your libido.

For those with more coin to spend, there were children’s toys and dolls, soap, scented oils, and jewelry.

Winding through the rows of booths were dirt footpaths scattered with straw to help cut down on the mud and hazardous divots. I’d seen many an unaware shopper turn an ankle after encountering the uneven surface.

Though the food was far from royal standards, it woke my appetite. The scents of roasted hare and fried river fish wafted to my nose, making my empty stomach growl.

I wouldn’t be buying anything though. I never did.

If I wanted to be able to continue my routine, I couldn’t allow the food sellers or any of the other merchants to get too close a look at my face or hear my voice.

As usual, I’d stopped along the path to rub some dirt on my hands and face before entering the Rough Market and pulled up my hood, but still, I stood a foot taller than most humans, and there were other differences that set us apart.

Thankfully many of them were invisible. I was already pushing it by returning to the same place so often.

If someone were to recognize me as Prince Stellon Randalin, firstborn son of King Pontus Randalin, my enjoyable respites from the palace would come to an abrupt end.

I’d no longer be able to anonymously observe and sketch the people here. Instead I’d be bowed and simpered to–or be murdered. We weren’t exactly popular with the human population of Marinus.

As I settled into an out of the way, shaded spot with my pencils and parchment in hand, I wasn’t truly concerned about the latter possibility.

My superior size and strength made me an intimidating match against most human men, even without my armor and weapons.

Besides, I’d seen other Fae here at times, and no one bothered them. Of course they were all lower Fae and had much more in common with the human peasants than I did or ever could.

My brother Pharis said he couldn’t understand why I’d even be interested in mixing with them, much less capturing their images in my drawings, but then I didn’t understand a lot of his choices either.

“They’re fascinating,” I’d told him the last time he questioned me. “So much more varied in appearance than we are. Some are short, some are frail, some are fat, some are old—”

“All of them are ugly…” he’d drawled, lifting then dropping one of my recent sketches as if disgusted.

“I don’t think so. I think their differences are intriguing, beautiful even.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “If you see a beautiful human, please do send her along to my bedchamber. Just don’t let Father find out about your little outings .”

“I don’t intend to,” I’d said. “And as long as you keep your mouth shut about it, he won’t.”

Pharis’ expression had grown serious, a rarity for him. “I’d never betray your confidence. You know that.”

“Yes I do,” I’d answered, and it was true.

As difficult as my relationship with my father was, my brother and sister made life in the palace tolerable. It was good to have them to commiserate with and share the burden of being the offspring of King Pontus, though not quite equally.

I was heir to the throne after all—and Father’s most valuable weapon, thanks to my particular glamour.

If only I’d been born with a less shameful one. Musical glamour for instance. There was no way he could abuse that and twist it for his own purposes.

Or exceptional artistry. That one would have been nice. It would have enabled me to fully capture the lively scene before me, which I was woefully failing to do at the moment.

Using my sleeve, I rubbed out the charcoal pencil lines I’d already laid onto the paper. I looked up and around, seeking a new subject.

There—a group of young men walking down the main aisle. Strutting actually. I’d seen them here several times before.

They were not shoppers, but thieves. I wasn’t sure if anyone else realized it.

Perhaps they did but felt as if they had no recourse against the rampant criminal activity here.

Maybe they didn’t even notice it anymore. A bit of thievery seemed to be part and parcel of the daily goings on at the Rough Market.

As my father said, it was simply “human nature” to lie and cheat and steal and attack one another.

The gang had first caught my eye because of the bold way they moved through the marketplace aisles, as if they owned them. The leader was a bit older and rougher looking than the others, with several prominent scars on his face. Burn scars, perhaps?

An interesting face and one I'd sketched several times before. The gang stopped quite close to me, giving me a close-up view.

My charcoal moved rapidly over the page as I took advantage of the opportunity, sneaking glances and recording the small details of the ringleader’s profile as well as those of his followers.

Suddenly, he turned toward me, and the rest of his crew followed. My heart sank.

Shaded stars. I was going to have a fight on my hands.

I mean, I was pretty sure I could take them—I’d trained in hand-to-hand combat since I’d been able to walk. But the ruckus would be certain to draw attention and probably ruin my anonymity.

Then I realized they weren’t looking at me but at someone walking up the aisle from behind me.

The woman passed my position and strolled right past the men, apparently not noticing their staring, though I wasn’t sure how she could have missed it.

The men craned their necks at her like a pack of wolves scenting an oblivious rabbit, and I didn’t think it was because of her looks.

Yes, she was appealing, in a fragile way—like a flutter-by whose delicate wings were so lovely you felt compelled to touch them, but if you did, they died.

Beauty that was captivating but impermanent, just like the humans spread throughout our lands.

No, it wasn’t the girl’s attractiveness that had drawn the attention of the ruffians. It was her… differentness. I could see it, too.

She wasn’t the usual Rough Market patron. Cleaner, fresher, attired in a country dress that was a bit faded and hopelessly out of style by Fae Court standards but neatly pressed.

Perhaps she was a regular here at the market, but I didn’t think so. In fact, I’d have bet anything she was a first-time visitor.

Proving my suspicion, she stopped walking at the fork in the main thoroughfare and glanced one way then another as if unsure which direction to choose.

From this angle, the hood of her cloak obscured most of her face—and her peripheral vision.

In other words, she looked like an excellent victim.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. The leader of the street gang motioned to his companions to follow him as he set off after the young woman.

“Ripe pigeon, boys,” he said, and several of them snickered. “Anyone hungry?”

She didn’t look wealthy by any means, and she didn’t appear to have brought any goods to trade. But she was here for some reason, which led me—and obviously the thieves—to believe she had something of value on her, perhaps hidden in her bodice or the pockets of her skirts.

Hopefully that was all they had in mind and they weren’t interested in what was beneath those skirts.

From out of nowhere a surge of anger rose in my chest, and the vein in my neck began to pulse.

The men picked up their pace, not allowing their prey to get too far ahead.

Blissfully unaware of the danger at her back, the woman took the right fork and wandered around the side of a ramshackle corner booth selling potatoes, carrots, and turnips.

The moment she slipped out of sight, I was on my feet, nearly overcome by the urge to get up and go after her.

And what was that about?

Not your business, Stellon. Stay out of it.

I sat down again and attempted to go back to drawing, advising myself to forget about the whole thing and willing my heart rate to settle.

On many occasions, I’d sat placidly by and watched as these same thugs had pickpocketed inattentive shoppers—male and female—and snatched goods from the stalls of distracted sellers.

I didn’t know this girl at all. Why should she be any different?

What the humans did to each other was none of my concern. All my life I’d been taught to look down on them, pity them if I must, but care as little as possible.

And I never had cared. Until today.

My gaze strayed back to the corner, around which the last of the pickpockets was disappearing.

For whatever reason, I was troubled by the thought of this girl being stalked and robbed—and perhaps worse—by the gang members.

Before I quite knew what was happening, I was on my feet again and moving in the direction of the corner vegetable stall.

Rounding it, I scanned the busy lane, looking for the band of thieves. There they were, about halfway down the aisle.

Directly across the way, I spotted the top of the girl’s hood. She was facing away from the predators, leaning into a booth, speaking with the proprietor.

The older woman must have said something funny, because the younger one laughed, a sweet sound that rose above the cacophony of market noise. I couldn’t hear what she said in response, but it must have been something kind because the old woman placed both hands over her heart and smiled, looking touched, and they exchanged a brief hug.

One of the thieves broke from the pack and made his move.

And I made mine.

I reached the girl just before he did. “There you are, my heart,” I bellowed.

Stepping in between her and the man, I slung an arm around her back and swept her away from the booth and down the lane.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, leave it to your husband to conduct the business,” I announced loudly in my most obnoxious “husbandly” tone.

“Husband? Wh-what?” she gasped, struggling not to stumble as she was compelled along by my much longer stride and the large hand clamped at her waist.

I wasn’t carrying her completely, but her feet were barely touching the ground. That was intentional as I couldn’t allow her to dig in like a baby mule. I intended to put as much distance as possible between us and the pack of thieves before stopping to explain, whether she liked it or not.

And she did not like it. At all.

“Let me go,” she demanded, kicking ineffectually. “What do you want with me?”

Now she began to wriggle her top half, trying to free herself from my grasp. We were almost to the end of the row. I just hoped we made it there before she started slapping me.

“I mean you no harm,” I muttered beneath my breath. “Just be quiet and come with me if you know what’s good for you.”

“I will not be quiet. I’m going to scream.”

Her head whipped back and forth as if she was searching for a route of escape, or perhaps some helpful bystanders.

There were none to be found. In fact no one seemed to be paying us any mind at all. Which was good.

My hope was to put this woman on the path back to wherever she’d come from and then get back to my observation point and retrieve my sketching materials before someone decided to claim them for themselves.

I could always get more pencils and paper, but the drawings I wanted to keep.

“Go ahead and scream if you like,” I said in a casual tone. “You must be a newcomer to the Rough Market, though. Screams are part of the atmosphere. In fact, I doubt anyone would even hear you.”

As if to prove my point, a loud squeal emanated from the pig stall beside us, and a squawking chicken flapped across the path before settling on the other side. The sounds of a nearby flute and raucous laughter joined the symphony.

“Besides, I’m not the one you should be afraid of.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Take a look behind you.”

She threw a glance backward. “What? I don’t see anything frightening.”

“See those four men?” I said. “They spotted you the moment you entered the market, and they’ve been stalking you ever since like foxes on the trail of a juicy little partridge.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,” she exclaimed.

“I know. Which is why I intervened.” For reasons that are still beyond me.

At the end of the lane we took a right. Out of sight of the thieves now—at least of that particular crew—I stopped walking and released my hold on the woman.

She stumbled back and turned to face me with incredulous eyes. They were the most appealing shade of brown I’d ever seen in my life, rich and warm like the luxurious furs we wore in winter.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked. “Maybe it was you who was following me. Maybe you're the hungry fox.”