Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 18

  Oh, stop. She gave herself a shake and touched the violet ring encircling the middle finger of her right hand. Her wedding band. This was her choice, and she was not without allies. She was the woman of the prophecy, after all—the one who had helped turn the tide of battle and defeat the Void.

  If the Dark Elves of the Hawthorne Court tried to treat her poorly, well, she would remind of them of the fact that, but for her, their realm would no longer exist. Mortal she might be, but she’d faced danger unflinchingly, and would do so again.

  Chin high, she turned to see if there was anything she might do to help Avantor or comfort Anneth.

  4

  Whispers followed Bran as he stalked through the halls. Formally garbed courtiers watched him, wide-eyed, as he passed. He paid them no heed. Whatever they chose to believe about his absence, and Mara’s, both of them had both returned to the Hawthorne Court and all gossip could be put to rest.

  Too soon, he reached the wing of the palace where his parents resided. The guard minding the hallway bowed to Bran and stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Thank you, Sindor,” Bran said. As commander of the Dark Elf forces of Hawthorne, he knew the names of all his soldiers, down to the lowliest trainee. “Is my father in his library?”

  “I believe so, my lord.”

  With a nod of thanks, Bran strode down the corridor. Foxfire spheres bobbed at intervals, casting their cool light into the shadows. At the ebony doors of Lord Calithilon’s library, he paused to take a breath. If he was fortunate, his father would be within. And alone. Despite the renewed strength Avantor had lent him, Bran had no taste for dealing with his mother, who had never held him in any particular favor.

  He rapped at the door. “It’s Bran.”

  “Enter,” his father said.

  Bran pushed open the door, then paused on the threshold. His mother, Lady Tinnueth, was seated across from her husband, two glasses of elderberry wine on the table between them. Starlight sifted in from the large window framing his parents, illuminating Lord Calithilon’s haughty features and gilding his mother’s silver hair.

  “Don’t stand there gawking, Brannonilon,” Lady Tinnueth said. “It’s most unbecoming behavior in a prince.”

  Schooling his features to register nothing of his feelings, Bran stepped into the room and made his parents a graceful bow.

  “I’d heard you were back in the palace.” His father rose. “Do you care to explain your absence?”

  Bran hesitated a moment. He didn’t want either of his parents to know that Mara had returned, briefly, to the human world, and then—impossibly—opened the gateway back to Elfhame.

  “I felt a stirring of the Void within the Erynvorn,” he said. True enough.

  “So you went to investigate, by yourself?” Lord Calithilon raised one dark brow. “Unwise, at the very least.”

  “I was not alone,” Bran said stiffly.

  “Ah yes, the mortal girl.” Lady Tinnueth’s voice was cold. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that she perished along the way.”

  He clenched his jaw, refusing to give her the angry response she sought. “I’m pleased to say that my wife is quite well.”

  “As to that…” His father waved to an empty chair, then moved to the sideboard to fetch another goblet. “Do join us for a cup of wine.”

  It would be the height of rudeness to refuse, and Bran needed his father’s goodwill to offset his mother’s enmity. Despite his reluctance, he took the proffered seat and accepted the goblet his father handed him.

  “I must inform you both of a continuing danger,” Bran said. “Creatures of the Void still roam our land. It’s imperative that we form a company of warriors at the earliest—”

  “Did you not close the rifts the Void had opened?” His mother leaned forward, a sharp gleam in her violet eyes. “Did you not beat back their assault upon our court, and save all Elfhame from invasion?”

  With effort, Bran kept his claws sheathed. “I did. But there is still—”

  “Then the prophecy of your birth has been fulfilled,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

  Giving himself time to regain his temper, Bran took a sip of the wine. There was something in his mother’s expression he greatly distrusted. Yet what she said was true.

  “The Void is not entirely vanquished from our world.” He set down his goblet, the tart taste lingering in his mouth.

  Lady Tinnueth waved a hand, the tips of her claws just visible. “I’ve no doubt you will manage to dispatch the creatures.”

  “Yes.” His father gave him a pointed smile. “It should be easy, compared to the battle we waged for the Hawthorne Court. And the other courts will lend their assistance, of course—this threat concerns us all.”

  “Then I have your permission to form a coalition of warriors?” Bran gathered himself to rise. The sooner he was out from under Lady Tinnueth’s scathing stare, the better.

  “No need to be hasty,” his father said. “Finish your wine.”

  Reluctantly, Bran remained in his chair and braced himself for whatever his father was about to say. He hadn’t grown up in the Hawthorne Court without developing a highly attuned sense for trouble headed his way.

  “I agree with your estimable mother,” Lord Calithilon continued. “The prophecy foretold at your birth has been fulfilled. Despite the negligible cleanup that remains.”

  Bran bit his tongue. Voidspawn were never negligible to deal with, and it remained to be seen how many of the creatures still roamed Elfhame. But that was a topic better taken up with his warriors and battle mages. As soon as possible.

  “What is your point?” He did not bother to hide his impatience.

  “Why, that your marriage to the mortal can now be dissolved,” Lady Tinnueth said, her voice like a honeyed blade. “Her purpose here has been served. Send her back through the gateway, and renew your promise to Lady Mireleth.”

  His mouth twisted. Of course—his mother would do anything to remove Mara and put the poisonous Mireleth in her place. He wondered what promises Mireleth’s parents had made to the Hawthorne Lord and Lady in exchange for the sham betrothal.

  A betrothal that, however unwillingly, he had agreed to. By the double moons, he’d been a fool to do so.

  “It is the best course,” his father added.

  “It is the only course.” Lady Tinnueth’s eyes were as hard as the purple-hued marble columns gracing the room. “We no longer need that human abomination at court.”

  It was no secret that she regarded mortal blood as tainted, but Bran was taken aback by the viciousness of her words.

  “No.” He pushed his goblet away and stood. “I have wed Mara, and I stand by those vows. I’ll hear no more of this. Good day.”

  He bowed curtly, then stalked to the door.

  “We are not finished with the matter,” his mother called after him. “The mortal does not belong here. You will come to see it, soon enough.”

  He closed the thick ebony wood on her words, and wished he could block them from his mind as effectively. For a part of him feared that Lady Tinnueth was right. Mara was out of place in the Hawthorne Court—and out of time as well. The longer she stayed in Elfhame, the more years would slip past in the mortal world.

  At some point, even if she wanted to return, it would be far too late. Everyone she loved would have turned to dust, and she would be alone in her world. As she was alone now, in Elfhame.

  Not alone, he reminded himself fiercely. Mara had him, no matter how flawed a mate he might be. Anneth would stand by her as well, he was certain. And there were others, who had seen her bravery upon the field of battle, who admired her calm strength. She was not without allies.

  But would they be enough to shield her from the Hawthorne Lady’s hatred?

  5

  As Mara hovered discreetly in the background, Avantor tended to Anneth’s wounds. She lay facedown upon her bed, her back bared. The bloody scores of the gyrewolf’s claw marks looked raw, but the healer pronoun
ced the injury, while painful, not grievous.

  He held his hands over her. This time, instead of humming, he began to sing; a liquid, soothing melody. Pale light radiated from his palms. To Mara’s amazement, Anneth’s skin began to knit, though the gouges did not heal entirely.

  “There should be no scarring,” the healer said, giving Anneth a long look. “Provided you rest appropriately.”

  She turned her head and gave him a faint smile. “Unlike my brother, I’m sensible about such things. Though if you want Bran to rest, you’ll have to chain him to his bed.”

  Avantor smiled ruefully. “He takes his duties seriously.”

  “Someone has to,” Mara said. “The remaining Void creatures must be dealt with. Who knows who else they might attack, and what damage they’ll do?”

  From what she knew of his parents, she doubted the Hawthorne Lord and Lady would spring into action. Despite the recent battles against the Void, the elder Dark Elves did not seem to act particularly quickly.

  Avantor glanced at her, his expression troubled. “It is worrisome, indeed. Nonetheless, our commander is in no condition to rush out and hunt the Voidspawn down. Please make him see sense until he’s regained his strength.”

  “I’m not sure how much sway I have over Bran,” she said. The powerful Dark Elf commander was not so easily handled.

  Anneth let out a quiet snort. “He is your husband. You have more power than you think.”

  Maybe. But Bran had kept his promise to send her back to the mortal world. There were no more debts or obligations between them.

  Only a marriage that was so new, she did not know if it would survive the Hawthorne Court’s frosty disapproval.

  “I’ll try,” she told Avantor. It was the best she could do.

  The door swung open and Bran stepped inside. He looked worse than when he had left, his eyes full of shadows, his expression grim. He glanced at Mara, then away, his attention focusing on where his sister lay.

  “How are you?” he asked, moving to Anneth’s side.

  “Well enough,” she said. “Avantor says I’ll heal completely, as long as I rest.”

  The healer looked Bran up and down. “I must recommend the same course for you. What happened while you were gone from the court, to drain you so?”

  Bran flexed his hands, his claws bared for a moment, then re-sheathed, though with slow reluctance.

  “In the final battle, the Void managed to slip a fragment of its darkness into me,” he said. “It waited until I was weakened, then struck, sapping my life force. I would have died, but for Mara.”

  Anneth regarded him, eyes wide. Then she shot Mara a glance, as if to say that Bran owed her a great debt.

  He did not, of course. Mara’s insistence on returning to her own world had weakened his power to the point the Void could attack. Opening the gateway had taken almost all his strength. It was because of her that he’d been alone in the Darkwood and far from help when the darkness struck.

  Avantor frowned. “You know as well as I that complete rest is the only way to refill a wellspring nearly drained dry.”

  “I have no time.” Bran swung around and paced the length of Anneth’s bedroom. “While I take to my bed, who else will be mauled and killed by the creatures? I cannot let that happen.”

  “Bran.” Mara stepped forward and set her hand on his arm. The muscles were corded, as hard as steel. “Surely a warrior party will not be ready to set out immediately? Can’t you let the other courts know to keep watch? Maybe even organize their own troops?”

  She did not see why it all should fall on Bran’s shoulders. True, he’d carried the destiny of his realm his whole life, but hadn’t he paid enough price?

  “Listen to your wife,” Anneth said, her voice partially muffled by her pillow. “It’s high time the other courts stepped up to face their own battles. Elfhame has relied on you long enough.”

  “Perhaps.” Bran sounded far from convinced.

  “Take a few days, at least,” Mara said.

  “At the very least,” Avantor added. “Indeed, you should be resting right now. As should Anneth.” He gestured Bran and Mara toward the door.

  Bran hesitated at the threshold and glanced at his sister’s prone form.

  “Don’t worry,” the healer said. “A sound sleep, and she will be much restored. Now, go.”

  Bran let out a deep breath and ushered Mara from the room.

  Luckily, his rooms were located only a short distance from his sister’s, and before Mara could fret too much about him overtaxing himself, they reached his door.

  With a somber expression, he ushered her through. In contrast to Anneth’s warmly decorated rooms, draped with bright swaths of cloth and illuminated with foxfire chandeliers, Bran’s rooms were austere. But, as Mara looked closely, she saw a few personal touches. A silver scrying bowl sat on a small wooden table, and cubbies filled with scrolls covered one side of the room beside a large map of Elfhame fixed to the wall in one corner. A stand held his ornate court sword, jewels gleaming on the handle, and another collection of weapons were racked nearby.

  These were the rooms of a warrior, true, but also a prince, as the opulent materials proved. The few chairs and low couch, upholstered in a rich, velvety brocade, looked very comfortable. Thick, moss-colored rugs cushioned their footsteps, and while the lighting was not as ornate as Anneth’s, foxfire balls were cradled in curved silver bowls polished to a high sheen.

  Bran halted in the center of what she took to be the sitting room—at least, that was what she would call it in the mortal world. He gazed at her a long moment. Despite his stern expression, she thought she detected something stricken in his eyes.

  “I did not think to make other arrangements for you,” he said. “Forgive me. If you wish to stay elsewhere…”

  Did he want her there? Did he want her to live somewhere else? The ground felt unstable beneath her feet.

  She searched his gaze. “Among your people, is it usual for a husband and wife to share quarters?”

  “It is. In most cases. However, if you do not wish—”

  “I’d prefer to stay with you.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I didn’t come back to Elfhame and pull you from death’s doorstep just so that we could live apart.”

  His expression eased. “I would not want to make you uncomfortable, wife.”

  “I’m not,” she said. It was mostly true. “Although…” She could meet his eyes no longer.

  “What is it?” He crossed the space between them in three short steps. Gently, claws sheathed, he raised her chin and studied her face. “What frightens you?”

  “Not frightened, exactly, but—” She gave a small, wry laugh. “Among humans, the wedding night is, er… Well. The bride and groom share a bed.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the next room, where the corner of the low bed was just visible.

  “You are afraid I will roll over in the night and crush you in my sleep?” He shook his head. “Fear not. Your safety is my priority.”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. Did she really have to explain such things to her new husband? She had assumed Dark Elves mated much like humans did, but perhaps she’d been mistaken. Not that she felt ready for such intimacy. Even with Bran.

  “Then I won’t worry.” She mustered up a smile, privately resolving to speak with Anneth about the subject as soon as possible.

  Bran swayed on his feet, and her embarrassment quickly transformed to concern for him.

  “I think, speaking of beds, that you ought to lie down.” She took his arm and led him to the next room.

  It was, indeed, the bedroom. To her relief, she saw that the bed was quite large, and festooned with pillows. Bran sat with a grunt, tossed several pillows to the floor, and then lay back.

  In mere moments, his eyes closed, and his breathing deepened to a faint snore. Sleep pulled him into its undertow, and Mara bit her lip at how weary he looked in repose. It reminded her too much of how she’d discovered him, ly
ing all but lifeless in the Darkwood.

  Carefully, trying not to disturb him, she sat beside him and reached out to cup his cheek. At her touch, his eyelids fluttered open.

  “Mara,” he murmured, reaching up to cover her hand with his.

  “Rest now,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  He nodded, his intensely purple eyes shuttering closed once more. For several long minutes she sat there, watching him breathe, etching his starkly handsome features into her memory. Brannonilon Luthinor, Prince of the Hawthorne Court, fearsome Dark Elf warrior mage.

  Her husband.

  6

  Once Bran had fallen into a deep slumber, Mara rose and went back into the sitting room. She settled on the low couch, her mind whirling. What had she done? And what was she to do now?

  It was all very well to agree to dwell in Elfhame when she was saving Bran in the Darkwood, but the reality of her choice rose starkly before her. She was the only human in a land where, as far as she could tell, mortals were held in low esteem.

  But though single-handedly changing the minds of the Dark Elves seemed a daunting task, it was where her path led. If she could eke out even a little respect, it would be enough to make her life bearable.

  Power—that was what it came down to. Mara had a wellspring of magic, if she could learn to harness it. And she would, she vowed, closing her hands into fists. For her sake, and for Bran’s.

  Bran. There was a whole different problem. They came from such disparate worlds, and she had no idea what he expected of her. She had the unsettling feeling that he’d never looked past the prophecy and considered what it might mean to have a mortal wife.

  Well. They’d muddle through together, she supposed.

  In the meantime, he had a wellspring to recover, and she had a world to accustom herself to. In truth, Elfhame was magical and mysterious. Even with worries of the future weighing on her mind, the dreamlike wonder of her surroundings muted her fears. She had slipped into a fable and married a prince, and surely that was not such a terrible thing.