Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 23

  “So, reaching the kitchens is simple,” Mara reasoned. “But once Bran is several days away, it will be harder to contact him.”

  “Not for you, I don’t think.”

  Mara wondered if the dreams she’d had of Bran dying, the ones that had drawn her back into Elfhame, had been a kind of scrying. She could ask Penluith—or no, she couldn’t. The secret of her departure, and return, must remain between herself, Bran, and Anneth. If the knowledge became widespread, it would erode all sympathy among her handful of supporters, who were fiercely loyal to Bran. The mortal bride tried to abandon her prince? Unthinkable.

  The fact that she’d returned would not matter to the rigid honor of the Dark Elves. One did not selfishly turn away from prophecy. Or the Hawthorne Prince.

  The food arrived from the kitchens, providing a welcome distraction. Anneth joined her in nibbling a few honeycakes and a slice of moonmelon, but shook her head when Mara encouraged her to eat more.

  “I had a large breakfast, I promise.” Anneth covered her mouth, attempting to hide her yawn.

  “And now you need a large nap.”

  “Yes.” Bran’s sister sounded suddenly weary. “Take the rest of the cakes with you, though. I can summon more when I’m hungry again.”

  Mara finished up her slice of melon, then wrapped a napkin about the remaining honeycakes. This way she could skip lunch—and uncomfortable interactions with the court. At least, until dinner.

  “I’ll check on you later,” she said. “If you’d like.”

  “I would. And I’ll make arrangements for the seamstress to send you a selection of clothing, based on the items you’ve picked out here. Meanwhile, take the purple dress—yes, that one. It looks well on you.”

  Mara scooped up the soft, billowing length of fabric. She wasn’t sure she could arrange it around herself nearly as artfully as Anneth had, the first time Mara had worn it. But she’d manage.

  “Rest well,” she said, and left Bran’s sister to her much-needed sleep.

  Once again, Mara was thankful that Bran’s rooms were nearby, and that the royal siblings were housed in a less-traveled hallway of the palace. She gained the safety of his rooms without meeting anyone, and added the purple gown to her small collection of clothing.

  The rest of the day stretched before her. But Penluith would come after lunch, and she supposed that at some point Sicil would speak to her about the knife lessons Bran had insisted upon.

  Still, loneliness ached beneath her ribs. She wished for her sisters, no matter how annoying they could be. And her books. Did the Hawthorne Palace have a library? She supposed she might explore—but she’d rather do that with a companion who knew the lay of the court. Once Anneth fully recovered, she’d prove a lively guide, Mara had no doubt.

  The door to the gardens was nearby, if she recalled—but again, she hardly wanted to go wandering about the palace, opening random doors. That was a sure way to get herself into trouble, especially as she barely grasped the rudiments of court etiquette.

  The unfamiliarity of everything hit her all at once, and she sank down on the low couch with an intake of breath that was close to a sob.

  Stop it, she told herself, clenching her hands together. I am strong enough for this.

  If only Elfhame was not so dim. Everything would be easier if the sun shone in this magical land.

  Shutting her eyes, Mara conjured up memories of how it felt to stand in that warm light. She imagined the way brightness threaded through the green-leafed trees outside her family’s cottage, the hot, dusty scent of the road in late afternoon, the sun-warmed stones of the low wall where she and her sisters would sit, braiding flower crowns.

  After a while, the tightness in her chest eased. Yes, she no longer dwelt in the human world—but it still lived inside her, for as long as she could recall it.

  13

  As Bran rode away from the Hawthorne Palace, he could feel Mara’s gaze on his back. I am sorry, he thought, though he knew she could not sense it.

  She was brave, his little mortal, and he knew she would face the future unflinchingly. He wished he could be beside her, but his duty called.

  “Stay alert,” he said to his warriors. “I will cast a net of sensing over the area. We must let no Void creatures escape our patrol.”

  The elves under his command nodded, and beside him, Hestil loosened her curved swords in their scabbards, as it was her preference to fight double-bladed.

  Closing his eyes briefly, Bran spun his magic out, the tendrils of sensing similar to those guarding the borders of Elfhame, though not on such a grand scale. They formed an invisible net, moving out in a slow ripple over the countryside.

  He turned to his second. “After we finish dealing with the Voidspawn, we must inspect the boundary wards and reinforce any thin places.”

  Hestil gave him a cool look. “Might I remind you that you promised to return to your wife as soon as possible?”

  He winced slightly. “I am not succeeding very well at being her husband.”

  “Perhaps you do not need to carry the entirety of Elfhame’s safety on your shoulders any longer,” she said. “I am not one to give advice about love, but it seems to me that Lady Mara is equally deserving of your loyalty. Others can mend the wards, but you are the only one who can be husband to your wife.”

  But could he, truly, give Mara what she needed? For so long he’d been solely focused on his role in the prophecy—which meant focused on Elfhame’s safety. He wasn’t sure who he was without that driving force. Certainly not the kind of mate his brave, beautiful wife deserved.

  “I lied to her,” he said.

  “Did you?” Hestil’s tone was mild.

  “I did not tell her that Dark Elves are now infertile. That many in the court think we are a doomed race.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I cannot,” he said fiercely. His legs tightened over Fuin’s sides, and his horse danced forward a few startled steps. “I cannot believe that everything we have fought for is in vain.”

  Hestil glanced over at him, her expression calm. “And so you are here, scouring the land for answers.”

  “And for Voidspawn, don’t forget. We still have a score to settle.”

  “I am with you, Commander.” She shot him a tight smile. “Garon’s death will be avenged with every gyrewolf I impale, every spiderkin who dies on my blade.”

  Bran bowed his head as a quick blast of grief for the old soldier blew through him. “We lost many good people on the field.”

  “And many more remain.” She nodded at the warriors scattered before and behind them.

  Bran was about to respond when he felt a quiver go through the sensing he’d cast. He held up his hand and brought Fuin to a halt. His warriors stopped a heartbeat later, and Hestil slid her blades free.

  “That way,” Bran said quietly, tipping his head toward a thicket of wireweed.

  The fighters fanned out, weapons and spells at the ready. Their battle-trained mounts stepped softly through the underbrush.

  They rounded the thicket, but no enemy awaited. Bran frowned as he focused on his magic.

  “They are fleeing. Two… no, three Voidspawn. This way.”

  He nudged Fuin into a trot, then a loping canter. No use in trying for stealth when their quarry knew they’d been found. Up a silver-grassed hill, then down. Not much further now…

  As he crested the next rise, he saw them: two red-eyed gyrewolves and a skittering spiderkin, heading toward the distant trees of the Erynvorn. Without urging, his mount broke into a gallop. The thud of his riders’ hoofbeats sounded to either side.

  As soon as the distance had closed enough, Bran conjured up a bolt of flame and flung it toward the rearmost gyrewolf. Sizzling blue fire scored its side. Snarling, it spun to face them, as did the spiderkin. The second wolf continued running.

  “I’ll take him,” Hestil said, steering her mount on a course to intercept.

  “Go with her,” Bran directed two of
the other warriors, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy.

  He raised his hand, readying another bolt, but held his fire as two of his younger fighters swooped in. Their swords flashed as they bent from their horses to strike the Void creatures. One hit the spiderkin, and green ichor spurted from the wound. The rider bit out a curse as the caustic liquid sizzled against his arm.

  Then his warriors were clear, and Bran flung more azure flames at the spiderkin. The wolves were fast and dangerous, but spiderkin blood could maim even more quickly.

  “Look out!” another of his fighters cried, a touch of panic in her voice.

  Bran wheeled Fuin, his heart hardening into stone as he saw four more Void creatures bearing down upon them. Two lumberers—who could freeze the soul with a single touch—and two more of the blighted spiderkin, many-legged and poison-fanged.

  It had been a trap—and he’d foolishly led his warriors into the heart of it. Instead of four fighters to an enemy creature, the odds had now tilted perilously against them. Somehow, the Voidspawn had been able to shield themselves from his magic. Very worrisome—but he had no time now to dwell upon it.

  Drawing his blade, Bran urged Fuin forward. A lucky swipe damaged one of the lumberers, and his horse nimbly stepped away from the creature’s counterattack.

  All around him, blades slashed and blue fire sizzled. Bran’s focus narrowed to the essentials—flame and fight, stab and swerve. The woman who had first sighted the ambush fought at his side, and together they brought down the lumberer.

  Privately, Bran had to admit he was not at his best; his spells lacked their usual searing focus and his blade work was slow. Avantor would have scolded him mightily—another reason he was glad he’d left the healer behind. And while it might have been foolish for Bran to depart the Hawthorne Court before he was fully recovered, it was clear that the countryside was in danger. He could not have delayed another turn.

  It was brutal, difficult fighting, but one by one, the Void creatures were vanquished. Hestil delivered a killing blow to the gyrewolf she’d chased at the same time as two of Bran’s warriors cut down the last spiderkin.

  In the aftermath, the silence was as loud as a ringing bell. Bran drew in a ragged breath and surveyed his troop. One warrior cradled her arm to her chest, and several of the fighters sported acid burns, but he was relieved to see that no one was gravely injured. Avantor’s most gifted journeyman healer moved from person to person, humming softly as she performed quick spells of soothing and repair on burns, gashes, and bites.

  “Well done,” Bran said, pitching his voice to carry. “The creatures are growing clever, but you are all skilled enough to prevail against them. I am proud and pleased to number you among my very best.”

  He did not mention that, had they been one fewer, or the Voidspawn numbered any more, they might well have all fallen, their blood staining the silvergrass and seeping into the soil.

  “Take a few moments more,” he continued. “And then we make for Nightshade.”

  Where, he hoped, there would be enough time for his fighters to recuperate—and for him to regain the powers that were returning far too slowly.

  “I could not help but notice that you have lost your edge,” Hestil said softly as they regained the main road. “What happened?”

  “Later,” he said.

  He had not wanted to admit to anyone but Mara how close he’d come to death—but his weakness on the field was a liability his second-in-command must be informed of. He blew out an annoyed breath. In truth, he should have told her earlier, but he had been hoping that his powers would return more quickly than they had. The Voidspawn had put him to the test, unfortunately, and there was no denying the weakness that still lay over him.

  Still, telling Hestil was one thing, and letting his warriors overhear it, quite another. As Commander of the all Dark Elves’ forces, it was imperative he project nothing but strength. Aware of Hestil’s speculative gaze still resting on him, he forced himself to sit up straight and ignore the echoing ache of his wellspring.

  14

  Several turns later, Bran and his troop reached the Nightshade Court. They were welcomed warmly, and the injured warriors immediately sent for additional healing. As Bran followed the Nightshade Lady through the mostly empty corridors of her palace, he could not help a shiver of premonition. If he could not find a way to make his people fruitful again, every court was doomed to waste away, the halls desolate, the rooms deserted.

  No. He must not succumb to such despair. His prophecy was to save Elfhame, and he must believe that included the people that dwelt in the realm, as well as the land itself.

  “It is quiet,” the Nightshade Lady said, as if sensing his thoughts. “We lost many during the Void invasion.”

  “Your court has given much for the realm.” Bran glanced down at her thin face. “I am sorry to ask for some of your warriors.”

  She waved away his words. “Hawthorne provided sanctuary when we most needed it. Whatever we have here is yours.”

  “I will only take a few fighters. You must have a force left to defend yourself from the remaining Voidspawn, should they attack.”

  He did not suggest that she evacuate the palace. That would be to surrender to fear. Besides, surely he and his warriors would be able to eradicate the last of the Void. Even if the enemy had grown surprisingly cunning.

  “We will strengthen the wards about the palace,” she said.

  Bran gave her a short nod. “Scry to me, should you fall under attack again.”

  He hoped that would not be the case. Nightshade had borne too much.

  They entered the dining hall, and he was relieved to see that, with the addition of his warriors, a respectable number of the tables were filled. Of course, the room was smaller than Hawthorne’s, and when he looked closely, he could see that the tables were widely spaced, as though some had been removed and the room rearranged to close the gaps.

  The meal was subdued, the courtiers discussing what it meant that a half-dozen Void creatures had been lurking in the area. Bran and the Nightshade Lady spoke of small things at first until, between the last courses, she mentioned Mara.

  “I am surprised your wife is not with you,” she said, regarding him steadily with her clear indigo eyes.

  “I could not risk her,” he said.

  One of the lady’s eyebrows tilted up. “She seemed capable enough of fending for herself on the battlefield.”

  “Still, she must have some tutoring in the use of her wellspring. She remained at Hawthorne to receive the proper training.”

  “Why don’t you teach her?”

  “I am not a skilled teacher.”

  He took a swallow of mead, trying to wash away the taste of failure. If anyone could guide Mara, it ought to have been him, but his attempts had been woefully inadequate.

  “Perhaps humans learn our magic differently,” the Nightshade Lady said. “Have her efforts with other teachers been successful?”

  “Yes.” He did not elaborate on the fact that Mara was struggling, even with the venerated and experienced Penluith as her tutor.

  And he did not want to think too closely on Nightshade’s words—for, if they were true, then he had no real reason to leave his wife behind. Except his own selfishness in trying to keep her safe.

  “How long may we offer you our hospitality?” the lady asked.

  Bran firmed his mouth. He’d meant to take a few hand-picked soldiers from among the Nightshade Court’s fighters and depart for Moonflower as soon as they broke their fast. But the Voidspawn attack had taxed his troop, and they needed more than one sleep to recover.

  “On the next brightmoon,” he said reluctantly. “In the meantime, we can help strengthen the magical protections about the palace.”

  Too late, he remembered that his own powers were depleted. He’d have to fashion some reasonable excuse. That, or admit a portion of the truth.

  He would have done so with no other ruler, but if anyone knew how to keep
secrets, it was the Nightshade Lady. Her court had a long and troubled past, and he suspected the other courts, with the exception of the nearby Hawthorne, knew little of Nightshade’s hidden history.

  “We are glad to shelter you here as long as necessary,” she said. “I will have my steward show your people to their rooms.”

  “Thank you.” He had spent the last turn battling back his weariness, and knew that his warriors were in no better shape.

  She rose, signaling that dinner was at an end, then turned to Bran. “Perhaps tomorrow we can speak more of the Void threat. And of the future.”

  “I would like that.” He made her a slight bow—not a strictly necessary protocol between an heir and a ruler, but she had earned his respect several times over. Then, trying to keep his steps energetic, he followed his warriors from the room.

  Mara ate her leftover honeycakes for lunch, but could not dispel the restless anxiety that settled on her shoulders. There was no need to worry for Bran—he was only traveling from the Hawthorne Court to the Nightshade—but a sense of foreboding seemed to linger in the shadows.

  To banish it, she practiced summoning foxfire. Or tried to, at any rate. As before, her efforts amounted to nothing.

  “Drat it!” she finally exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

  When Penluith came, she’d ask him to teach her something else. Perhaps scrying, or the ward he had mentioned. What other magics did Dark Elves learn in the early stages? She had no idea what constituted the basics as opposed to more advanced spells.

  A knock came at the door. Mara opened it cautiously, to find an unfamiliar Dark Elf woman standing there. She was garbed in the leathers of a warrior, with a long blade and short dagger belted on either side of her waist. Her black hair, braided back from her face, held glints of russet.

  A scar ran down one of her cheekbones. Mara didn’t realize she’d been staring at it until the woman spoke.

  “I chose not to let the healers erase it,” she said. “It is a badge of honor to me. I am Sicil.”