Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 25

  “Is it always this quiet?” she asked Anneth in a low voice.

  “Mostly—except when there’s an event or special visitors.” Bran’s sister gave her a knowing look. “No one would remark upon it if you came to breakfast by yourself.”

  Mara firmed her lips. She supposed she could always fix a plate for herself and retreat, if the company became unpleasant. Meaning, if Mireleth or one of her cronies cornered her.

  A quick glance around the room showed no sign of the Dark Elf lady in question, and a bit more of the tension drained from Mara’s shoulders.

  “It’s not as formal as I’d expected,” she said.

  “Luncheon is similar,” Avantor said. “Although perhaps you did not notice, having so recently come to the Hawthorne Palace. Our court protocols have been rather upended lately.”

  “Epic battles and prophecies fulfilled tend to shake things up.” Anneth winked at Mara. “Come, I’ll show you my favorite things to eat.”

  More than simple honeycakes and moonmelon awaited on the long tables. Anneth guided Mara through the array of fruits and pastries, the thinly sliced meats and baked grains. Even though she only took a small sample of the dishes, Mara’s plate was nearly spilling over by the time they reached the end of the array.

  Avantor, who had deftly made his selections, beckoned from a nearby table, and Anneth and Mara went to join him.

  Once seated, Mara found that she was ravenous. Despite the unfamiliar flavors, she ate steadily while Avantor, after a series of questions to Anneth, decided she was sufficiently healed and released her from his care.

  The talk turned to Bran and his route through Elfhame.

  “He will be in Moonflower by now,” Anneth said, glancing at Mara. “Our realm is not so large, truly. He’ll be back at Hawthorne in a few more doublemoons.”

  “Provided he does not encounter unexpected complications,” Avantor added.

  Mara tried not to let the healer’s doubts shadow her own mood, and instead turned to Anneth with a determined smile. “Where is he headed after Moonflower?”

  “The inner courts, and then Rowan,” Anneth said. “At least, I think that is his course.”

  It was time to study the maps in Bran’s rooms again. Mara was not sure where Rowan lay in relation to Hawthorne. To the northwest, she thought, where the two courts shared a distant border.

  As they finished their meal, Mireleth swept into the room, accompanied by her retinue. She surveyed her surroundings imperiously, and when her gaze landed on Mara, her eyes glittered with satisfaction.

  “Brace yourselves,” Avantor said softly, and took a sip of his tea. “She’s headed this way.”

  Hidden by the table, Mara brushed her fingers over the handle of the weapon attached to her belt. Brandishing a dagger at Mireleth would probably not be within protocol, but she took comfort in the fact that she was armed, and at least had the option of drawing her blade.

  “My dear Anneth,” Mireleth said, arriving at their table in a swirl of skirts and smirking courtiers. “How marvelous that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence once more.”

  “Perhaps you’re unaware that Lady Anneth was injured.” Avantor’s voice was cool. “She was resting, on my orders.”

  Mireleth widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Oh yes—supposedly the country is overrun with Void creatures, despite Prince Brannonilon’s declaration that we vanquished the enemy.”

  One of the Dark Elves standing behind her tittered. “Not much of a triumph, then, was it?” she said in loud whisper to another of Mireleth’s companions.

  “I’d like to see you venture out from the Hawthorne Court,” Mara said, swiveling in her seat to glare at the courtier. “Perhaps you’d like to fight one of the Void creatures yourself.”

  “No need for any of us to do so.” Mireleth flicked her fingers dismissively. “I’m certain my prince has such matters well in hand. A pity he had to go running off so very quickly after your marriage. One might almost think he no longer wanted to remain at court.”

  Again a spate of laughter. Anger bubbling through her, Mara scraped her chair back and stood, confronting Mireleth directly. The Dark Elf’s face tightened, and she took a small step back. Mara counted that as victory enough.

  “I believe my husband is tired of the petty squabbles and silly maneuverings of the nobility,” she said. “I can’t say I blame him—I find such things tiresome, myself.”

  Lifting her chin in dismissal, she pushed past Mireleth and strode away, hoping somewhat desperately that Anneth and Avantor were right behind her.

  “Well done,” Bran’s sister said at her shoulder.

  Mara drew in a breath of relief, and glanced to her other side to find Avantor keeping pace. The three of them stepped into the hallway, and she paused a moment to gather herself.

  “Thank you for following me,” she said.

  “Of course!” Anneth shot her a sly smile. “Mireleth deserves to be taken down a notch, and you’re just the one to do it.”

  “Still, you must take care,” Avantor said, his expression serious. “Lady Mireleth has many connections at court, and her family is powerful. You do not want to antagonize her too much.”

  “Spoken like a true courtier.” Anneth shook her head. “What about Mara’s connections, her power? She is to be the Hawthorne Lady. I believe she’s right to put Mireleth in her place—and anyone else who insults her.”

  “I don’t want to play such games,” Mara said. “I just couldn’t take another spiteful word.”

  Although she’d called such things tiresome mostly to irritate Mireleth, Mara found that the words were true. She was a village girl from Little Hazel, not a princess raised in a grand palace, groomed for the intricacies of rulership.

  “Don’t fret.” Anneth reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Bran will be back soon, the rest of the Void vanquished, and you will find solid footing at court. I know it.”

  Despite her friend’s optimistic words, Mara was not so sure. The more time she spent at the Hawthorne Court, the more she knew she wasn’t suited for such a life. But what else could she do?

  She’d married the prince, after all, and abandoned her home world. The only place she had left was here, in the graceful prison of the Hawthorne Palace.

  17

  As the doublemoons curved down toward the horizon, Bran’s warriors came together to make camp. They had covered much ground in the last several turns and found no Voidspawn. Hestil reported a few blighted areas where it seemed the creatures had lingered, but beyond that, there was no sign.

  “Do you think they are hiding from us?” she asked as they ate their rations of bread and dried meat.

  Around them, the warriors pitched small tents, tended the mounts, and arranged for sentry duty. Bran watched them, chewing slowly and pondering Hestil’s question.

  “I would have said no, before that last skirmish,” he said. “But something has changed. The creatures have grown cunning.”

  Hestil frowned. “I do not know how, or why, but it seems the Voidspawn have somehow become more than mindless minions. With the rifts closed, they should be simple to fight, but now…” She trailed off, her brow furrowed.

  He had the same thoughts, and hearing Hestil confirm them sent a chill down his back. They knew so little about their ancient enemy—only that the Void was eager to devour new lands, sending its army in through rifts between the worlds to cut down any resistance, before slithering in to feast.

  His people had legends of once-vibrant realms turned to dust, teeming worlds left arid and lifeless after the Void descended. Elfhame had stood fast, with magic and might. Until now.

  “After the battle…” He paused. It was difficult to speak of his weakness, but in light of the Voidspawn’s new behavior, he must tell his second some of what had transpired.

  He would not share Mara’s determination to return to her home world, and subsequent return, however. That secret would jeopardize her standing in the eyes of
his soldiers. Even Hestil, although she might understand, would not think well of his mortal wife for attempting to abandon her husband.

  Hestil watched him without demanding answers. She knew to let the silence lengthen, and that he would fill it when ready.

  “Just before Mara and I struck at the heart of the Void and sealed the rift, something escaped,” he finally said. “It lodged within me, depleting my wellspring and stealing my life force. I was very nearly dead. Mara saved me.”

  He suppressed a shiver at the memory of that icy malevolence.

  “Did she kill it?” Hestil’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “I believed so. But my recollection of that time is hazy.” He’d been exhausted, drained of hope, of magic.

  “What if the Void shard survived?”

  “And is directing the remaining Voidspawn?” he finished for her. “That would fit with what we’ve seen so far—the ambush, the ruined areas.”

  “And means the threat is far greater than we feared.” Hestil’s voice was hard.

  “Indeed. We must redouble our tracking efforts.” He frowned. “The Void shard, if that is truly what it is, would be seeking to strengthen itself, so that it could reopen a rift.”

  “It will find us difficult prey, as ever.”

  Bran took a bite of bread, letting his thoughts coalesce as he chewed. The stars overhead spread their soft radiance, and the night seemed peaceful—to those who didn’t know of the dark threat roaming the land.

  Every Dark Elf knew of the danger the Void and its creatures posed. As Hestil said, Elfhame and its people were capable of protecting themselves. Even, he hoped, with an inimical piece of the Void slithering about the realm.

  But what if the Void sought easier victims? The bread he’d swallowed caught in his throat, and he coughed, trying to dislodge the uneasy thought along with his food.

  Hestil thumped him on the back, and he nodded his thanks. Still, apprehension ran through him.

  “What if the Void is making for the gateway in the Erynvorn?” he asked in a low voice, as if the enemy could overhear.

  “How would it know to do so?” Hestil gave him an appraising look.

  “Mara healed me there,” he confessed.

  His second raised a brow, clearly sensing there was more to the story, but she did not press him.

  “Would it even be able to pass through into the mortal world?” she asked. “It takes great magical strength to open the gateway.”

  “Perhaps my fear is unfounded.”

  “And perhaps not.” Her brows knitted together. “Do we split our fighters, sending some into the Erynvorn, while the rest continue on to Moonflower and Rowan?”

  “It is not a decision to take lightly.”

  He set aside the rest of the bread, his hunger gone, and crossed his arms. Breaking the party up would be risky. They were under strength as it was, and if he’d guessed incorrectly, the odds would favor the now-clever Voidspawn. He suspected the only reason the party hadn’t been attacked since leaving Nightshade was due to their numbers.

  “We continue to Moonflower,” he said, thinking aloud. “They should be able to lend us a dozen fighters, at least. There, we’ll split into two parties. You will take half to the inner courts, scouring for the Void along the way.”

  Hestil’s mouth tightened with displeasure.

  “I will take the rest,” he continued, “and make for Rowan. From there, we will close the circle of the outer courts and head into the Erynvorn.”

  Without more information—which he was unlikely to get—it was the best he could do. Even with his magic, there was no way to read the intent of the Voidspawn, or to know if their guess about its dark intentions was correct, or only fearful speculation.

  A good commander did not make decisions out of fear. But neither did they ignore a possible threat. He did not like separating the warriors into two parties, but the Void could not be allowed to flow unchecked into the mortal world.

  “I do not like it,” Hestil said. “But I see no better way.”

  “If you find one, tell me.”

  The burdens of command lay heavy on his shoulders. He watched as the palemoon chased the brightmoon out of the sky, leaving faded twilight in their wake, and wished for answers he did not have.

  18

  As promised, Anneth took Mara out to the far corner of the gardens for their weapons practice. A few glimglows trailed them, bobbing up and down like flames that had floated free of their candles, and the soft air carried the scent of flowers.

  As they continued along the blossom-starred hedges, Mara’s spirits rose. It took her several moments to realize why: the air was luminous with the light cast from both the brightmoon and the pale. Despite the strange double shadows cast by the moons, she smiled in relief.

  It was a sheer pleasure to be out of the Hawthorne Palace—and the confines of Bran’s rooms. When he returned, things would improve, she reminded herself. They must.

  “Here.” Anneth halted at a stretch of well-kept silvergrass.

  The hedges continued on either side, giving them privacy. The spires of the palace were just visible over their dark leaves. A target had been set up at one end, and Anneth strode to it, leaving Mara to practice her knife drills.

  The handle of her dagger felt awkward in her hand, and without Sicil’s example, she went clumsily through the moves, but she persevered. For her sparring partner, she chose a dark-leaved bush with dangling blue flowers.

  While Anneth sent arrows careening toward her target, Mara practiced slicing petals off the flowers. Neither of them were particularly successful. When their allotted time ended, Anneth set the end of her bow on the manicured grass and laughed.

  “We are not very formidable, are we?”

  “Not yet,” Mara answered.

  She was determined to master something, however—and since her magic was proving elusive, knife work seemed the better choice.

  Anneth nodded. “I’m sure we’ll improve, over time. Speaking of which, how are your lessons with Penluith going?”

  “We have another session later today. I’m still working on summoning foxfire.” Mara tried not to let her discouragement show in her voice.

  “Perhaps it’s difficult because you didn’t grow up surrounded by such things.” Anneth gave her a thoughtful look. “Once you become accustomed to life in our realm, magic should come easier.”

  “I hope so.”

  When she’d chosen to abandon the mortal world for Elfhame, Mara hadn’t exactly envisioned spending her days failing at almost every task she was set. Or penned up in the Hawthorne Palace, waiting for her husband to return from his own quests.

  As if reading her thoughts, Anneth patted Mara’s shoulder. “I’m sure that once my brother returns, he will help. Are you ready to go in?”

  Not particularly, but Mara recalled Avantor’s instructions for Anneth to limit her training. So she nodded her assent and sheathed her blade, then helped Anneth gather up her stray arrows, and they left the gardens behind.

  The corridors were depressingly dim, and Mara tried not to sigh as they moved deeper into the palace. She really must master the trick of summoning foxfire, and soon.

  “I’ll come visit after your lessons with Penluith,” Anneth said encouragingly as Mara left her at her door. “Surely they’ll go better this time.”

  Bran’s sister was eternally optimistic—a quality as endearing as it was annoying.

  “Thank you,” Mara said, trying not to sound too glum.

  Either her lessons would progress, or, more likely, they wouldn’t.

  Once she reached Bran’s rooms, she stood and inhaled deeply, trying to catch a trace of his spicy scent. Trying to remember the wry crook of his lips when he smiled, the way his eyes narrowed when she perplexed him once again with her strange mortal ways. There was only the faintest hint of cloves in the air, and a pang of loneliness squeezed her heart.

  How strange, that she should pine for the man she’d
once thought monstrous—her clawed, pale warrior who wielded magic as easily as he did his fearsome curved sword. But fate had brought them together. Though she did not understand the Oracles and their divinations, she could not dispute that their prophecy had proven true. At least, so far.

  Her ample breakfast carried her through lunch, and Mara spent the time before Penluith arrived trying to harness the power of her wellspring. When she closed her eyes and reached deep inside, she thought she felt it, like a quiet blue pool. But sensing it was one thing, and activating it quite another.

  Penluith arrived, and once again demonstrated ample patience as Mara struggled to conjure foxfire. After half their time had run, with no success, she turned to him.

  “What about casting a shield? Or, what did you call it—a ward?”

  The tutor frowned faintly. “As I said earlier, it is a dangerous magic to harness.”

  “Well.” Mara shrugged. “Since I probably won’t be able to cast that magic either, it doesn’t matter. Will you at least let me try?”

  Penluith studied her a long moment. “Very well—but you must take care in its casting. The word is turma.”

  She practiced saying it aloud, without trying to summon any magic. Once the tutor nodded his approval, she concentrated on connecting with her magic.

  “Turma,” she said fiercely.

  As usual, nothing happened. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to let Penluith see the despair creeping over her.

  “Hm.” He twisted his mouth in thought, then rose from his customary chair. “Let us see if a change of venue might help. Come.”

  Mara hoped he was leading her back into the gardens, but instead he took a circuitous route through the corridors. Despite her unfamiliarity with the palace, she thought he was leading her down hallways she’d never traversed before.

  At last, they stepped through a graceful arch into a large, round room that shimmered with light. The center of the room held a pool filled with pale blue water, and the roof overhead was open to the sky.