Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Read online

  “The Room of Reflection,” Penluith said as Mara glanced about. “Some find that it helps focus the mind.”

  “So, the water’s not for bathing?”

  She didn’t think so, and the tutor’s shocked expression confirmed her guess.

  “No,” he said, sounding faintly horrified. “The pool is blessed by the Oracles. It symbolizes the wellspring, and the radiance that shines within us all.”

  Even humans? she wanted to ask, but bit her tongue on the words.

  “Sit here,” he said, leading her to a bench carved of pale stone.

  Flat pillows adorned it, covered in blue silk that matched the water, and Mara settled, facing the pool. The water was as still as glass, the double spheres overhead just visible at the edge of the reflection.

  “Breathe slowly,” the tutor said. “Empty your mind of striving, of worry. Feel the peaceful center of your own wellspring.”

  It was surprisingly easy to follow his directions. The pool seemed to shimmer slightly, and Mara thought she felt an answering flutter deep inside.

  “Call foxfire,” Penluith said softly.

  Trying to retain her fragile sense of peace, Mara opened her hands.

  “Calma,” she said.

  A small blue spark ignited above her right palm, and she gasped in surprise.

  “Look!” She lifted her hand to Penluith, only to see the tiny ball of foxfire snuff out.

  Still, he gave her a nod of approval. “Try again.”

  She did, and succeeded about half the time. The tutor watched her closely, his indigo eyes inscrutable.

  “Enough,” he said, after Mara had failed a half-dozen times in a row. “I think I see part of the difficulty.”

  “What is it?” She folded her hands in her lap and tried not to hold her breath as she awaited his answer.

  His lips quirked, possibly with annoyance. “You seem best able to call upon your wellspring when you do not try.”

  “But… how else am I supposed to do magic?”

  “Without trying,” he said dryly. “That is, let your wellspring open without attempting to open it.”

  It seemed quite contradictory. She stared at the pool, frowning, and tried to pick apart the why and how of her ability.

  When Bran drew upon her power in battle, it was not an active attempt on her part to reach her wellspring, so she supposed that made sense. And when she opened the gateway, she’d been driven by desperation and panicked need. There had been no time to try—she’d simply had to act.

  The time she called foxfire in Bran’s rooms, she’d managed just as he entered—and she dimly recalled being distracted by his arrival. She supposed that, for a brief moment, she had not been pushing so hard to create it, and thus the foxfire came.

  But having only intermittent access to her wellspring seemed worse than having no power at all. She needed to be able to rely on her own abilities.

  “What if I must summon my magic right away—in case of emergency or attack?” she asked.

  “If you know your runes by heart,” Penluith said slowly, “then I would hope your casting would become automatic. In cases of emergency.”

  It was not the answer she hoped for—but the tutor had given her a key to why she was struggling. Now she must unlock the door. First, though, she had to find it—that elusive place in her being where her wellspring dwelt.

  The twinned spheres of the palemoon and the bright floated serenely in the basin of the pool. Then, as Mara watched, they shivered as though a low wind moved over the water. The reflections broke into a half-dozen slivers of light, and she leaned forward, trying to make sense of what she saw.

  Foxfire, flickering in a dark forest. No… torches. A glimpse of upraised swords and the rounded, blunt faces of human soldiers. Bran, turning with a look of surprise, as a black arrow flew out of the dark and lodged itself in his chest.

  “No!” Mara cried.

  The echo of her shout broke the peace of the room, and Penluith sprang to his feet.

  “What is it?” He set his hands on her shoulders and peered into the water. “What did you see?”

  “A battle. The Darkwood, and Bran in danger. I must go to him!” Leaving out the part about seeing her own kind, she sprang to her feet.

  “Calm yourself,” Penluith said. “What the water shows here is not events in the present.”

  She gave him an accusing look. “You didn’t tell me this was a scrying pool.”

  “It is not.” He shook his head at her. “At least, it is not used for such a purpose. But any reflection can be the vehicle for a scrying—and this water is Oracle-touched. You are not the first to see future visions within it.”

  “Who else has?” She sent a wary glance at the now-quiet pool.

  “Prince Brannonilon.”

  “And what did he see?” She thought she could guess the answer, however.

  “He saw you,” Penluith replied, proving her right.

  “He was being attacked.” Her throat tightened. “I must warn him.”

  “He is commander of the Dark Elf forces and heir to the Hawthorne throne. Danger has always walked beside our prince. He knows to take care.”

  “But—”

  “If the water has chosen to show you a vision, then you will be able to act in some way.” He gave her a gentle look. “When that time comes, you will know. But for now, our lesson is at an end. Do not fret over Brannonilon, or what you have seen.”

  Very well—she would try not to dwell on it. But, for whatever reason, it seemed the prophecy was not yet done with them. Danger lurked, cloaked in the mists of the future.

  As she left the Room of Reflection, she turned to give the water an accusing look. It did nothing more than placidly reflect the stars—but she could not escape the feeling that fate was laughing at her.

  19

  Mara returned to Bran’s rooms, her thoughts heavy. The chilling vision aside, there was the whole problem of how to access her magical power. It would be difficult to try to reach her wellspring without trying. Might as well ask a bird to fly without moving its wings.

  She let out a gusty sigh and pushed open the door to Bran’s rooms. At least the calm quiet of the reflecting room had given her a place to begin.

  Just inside the door, an ornate chest sat, with a smaller box stacked on top. She blinked at them, confused, then cautiously lifted the lid of the box.

  Jewelry, hairpins, and silver-shot woven belts gleamed up at her. It seemed her new wardrobe had arrived. Well, that would make a welcome distraction.

  She was partway through sorting the jewelry when Anneth knocked at her door—a single rap, followed by three shorter ones. They had agreed on the signal, so that Mara would not have to worry about opening the door to unwanted visitors.

  “Come in,” she said, admitting Anneth. “Look—my clothing’s here.”

  “Wonderful.” Anneth clasped her hands. “You must try everything on, of course. What do you think of the gowns? Do they suit?”

  “I haven’t opened the chest yet,” Mara admitted. “I was enjoying looking over the jewelry.”

  The low table was spread with winking jewels and intricately wrought metal. It was adornment fit for a queen, and Mara had to keep reminding herself that here, in Elfhame, she actually was a princess.

  “Well, let’s open it.” Anneth took one end of the chest, and together they moved it to the center of the room, beside the low couch.

  “I don’t think there will be room enough for my gowns.” Mara glanced at the heavy wardrobe set against one wall. “Bran’s clothing and gear takes up most of the space.”

  Anneth shook her head. “You will need to move into a bigger suite, once he’s done traipsing all over Elfhame. You’ll each need a sitting room, and a place to store your clothing and personal items.”

  Not that Mara had many possessions. Certainly not enough to need an entire room of her own to house them. Although the chest of new dresses was a promising start. She pushed open the lid a
nd drew out the first gown, a soft length of pearl-colored silk that seemed more like a dawn cloud than an item of clothing.

  “That’s lovely,” Anneth said approvingly. “The cut will look very well on you.”

  Mara couldn’t see that the garment was shaped at all. To her eye, it was all pleats and billows. But with Anneth’s help, and one of the long belts, it began to make sense.

  “Now go admire yourself in the mirror,” Anneth said, after affixing an opaline comb in Mara’s hair. “In fact, let’s fetch it—there’s one in the bedroom, is there not?”

  There was: a tall, heavy thing that barely fit through the doorway. Once they’d positioned it to Anneth’s liking, Mara took her place before the reflection. For an instant, the memory of her scrying overlaid the mirrored surface, and she shivered in memory.

  Then the moment passed. Mara’s vision cleared, to show an elegant woman garbed in a dress that seemed something from a legend. The shimmering fabric clung flatteringly about her chest and flowed into graceful skirts that did not hamper her movements in the least. Sicil would approve.

  “Do you like it?” Anneth asked from her perch on the couch.

  “I do. Though I still wouldn’t wear it to pull weeds.”

  Anneth laughed. “That’s what the gardeners are for. Though if you really wanted to do such a thing, I’m sure they’d let you join them.”

  “The warriors mostly wear trousers and tunics, I’ve noticed.” Mara turned toward her friend. “Do you think I might have some of those made, as well?”

  She didn’t want to be too demanding, but, honestly, she couldn’t imagine wearing nothing but the gossamer clothing of the Dark Elf nobility.

  With an impish grin, Anneth waved at the chest. “I thought you might ask. There should be two sets of them, down at the bottom.”

  “Is it too eccentric of me?” Mara bent and began rifling through the silky, jewel-toned fabrics.

  “No. You are a human, after all. It is probably a good thing, not to try to make yourself entirely into a Dark Elf courtier. A bit of oddity will go in your favor.”

  Mara’s questing fingers found a heavier weave. She pulled out a dark blue tunic and shook it open.

  “Ack!” Something scuttled over the cloth, and she hastily dropped the tunic. “There’s a bug.”

  “There should be no insects in the clothing.” Frowning, Anneth stood and nudged the cloth with her foot.

  A white spider the size of a coin rushed out from the edge of the tunic, making for the shadows under the couch.

  “Kill it!” Anneth shrieked, leaping back.

  Mara grabbed a scroll from the table and whacked the spider, hard. It curled into a small ball and lay motionless on the carpet.

  “Hit it again,” Anneth said, her voice shaking.

  Mara did, whacking until the spider was, without a doubt, dead.

  “I didn’t know you were afraid of spiders,” she said, looking about for a kerchief or something to use to pick up the body and dispose of it.

  “Don’t touch it.” Anneth let out a shaky breath. “It’s an unquale. Deadly poisonous.”

  “Oh.” Mara swallowed and eyed the lifeless spider. “Are they common?”

  Anneth shook her head vigorously. “No. There never should have been one in your clothing. They dwell in the distant vales outside the Cereus Court. I have not once seen one in Hawthorne.”

  “Do you think… someone put it there on purpose?” Mara felt ill at the thought. If Anneth had not been there to warn her, she wouldn’t have a known a deadly spider was loose in her rooms.

  “It is the most likely explanation, though it distresses me greatly.” Anneth shot her a worried look.

  “Not a very foolproof plot, though. There was no guarantee the spider would remain in the chest, let alone leap out at an opportune moment.” It seemed just the kind of thing Mireleth would do, though—a hasty, ill-conceived plan to inflict harm.

  Not that Mara had any proof. Just a dead spider curled on one corner of the carpet.

  “We must inspect the chest fully,” Anneth said. “And each room. Then I will set a ward at the doors and windows, to keep any harmful person—or creature—from entering. I should have remembered that, without Bran here to renew them, the protections have faded.”

  Mara pressed her lips together. Anneth may have forgotten, but someone else surely had not.

  “Show me how to cast the wards,” she said.

  She would not try, of course, but if her safety depended on it, she hoped her wellspring would respond.

  To her relief, after Anneth showed her the simple protection spell, Mara was able to duplicate it. They scoured the rooms and, satisfied no more danger lurked, set the wards at the windows and doors. Anneth insisted on warding the door between the bedroom and sitting room, too. Just in case.

  “I wish Bran were back,” Anneth said when they were finished.

  “I do too.” Mara folded her arms across her chest, and tried not to think of black arrows flying out of the dark.

  20

  As Bran had hoped, the Moonflower Court was able to provide enough warriors to swell their ranks to over thirty fighters. The rulers expressed dismay at the news that Voidspawn still roamed Elfhame, but did not seem unduly alarmed.

  “You saw no sign of the creatures as you traveled here from Nightshade?” the Moonflower Lady asked, her voice holding only mild curiosity, as they lingered over their breakfast of fruit and cheese.

  “We saw blighted areas,” Bran said. “But none of the actual Voidspawn.”

  It had been worrisome, to suspect that the creatures were moving about Elfhame and yet managing to avoid the scouting parties.

  The Moonflower Lord blinked sleepily at him. “Are you even certain that such blight is caused by the Void?”

  “Not entirely.” Bran bit out the words. “But I can see no other reason.”

  He wished he could inject more urgency into the languorous court, but Moonflower had ever held themselves slightly apart. Perhaps it was due to the proximity of the Oracles, who dwelt not far away, at the place where Moonflower and the lands of Cereus and Jessamin intersected.

  He’d considered visiting the enigmatic seers, but they only ever spoke once to any single person, and that included saying the prophecy for each royal child. Belatedly, he realized that Mara was one of the few people in all of Elfhame whom the Oracles would see. As soon as he returned to Hawthorne, he’d plan a journey to take her to the place of prophecy.

  “Perhaps there is a drought,” the lady said. “Or an affliction of the soil. Such things have been known to occur.”

  Bran frowned. Not in his lifetime, or that of his parents, however. But there was no point in arguing with the rulers of Moonflower.

  “Thank you for lending your support,” he said instead, pushing aside his silver plate. “Your fighters are much appreciated.”

  “It is good for them to travel a bit,” the Moonflower Lord said, as if Bran were taking the soldiers on a pleasure jaunt instead of a possibly deadly reconnoitering mission. “Gives them renewed perspective once they return home.”

  His wife nodded placidly. “Good journeys to you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor.”

  With a tight smile, Bran took his leave. He did not envy Hestil her task of visiting the inner courts, though she’d protested his division of their forces.

  “It’s foolish for you to take fewer than ten warriors,” she’d said, giving him a hard look.

  “Rowan will give me more. If you keep the bulk of the force, you’ll be able to patrol the inner courts that much more quickly, and then join me.”

  She’d frowned, but Bran knew his reasoning was sound—in this, at least.

  In the light of the half-full palemoon, the soldiers gathered outside Moonflower’s gates.

  “We will come to you as soon as we may,” Hestil said as they shared the traditional warrior’s clasp, wrist to wrist. “Good luck, Commander.”

  “And to you, my second.” He rele
ased her and raised his hand, signaling the riders to make ready.

  For some reason, the lassitude of Moonflower made him want to make a show of this departure. Rather than simply riding out, he’d prepared the warriors for a battle charge across the open meadows surrounding the court.

  It might do nothing but make him feel better, but perhaps the sight would stir Moonflower’s blood. He could hope so, at any rate.

  With a fierce yell, he swept his hand down.

  The warriors echoed his cry, surging forward with their blades raised. After the initial charge, Hestil led her troop in a graceful curve to the southeast. They would enter Cereus near the Oracle’s haven.

  Bran’s fighters continued north. He grinned at the sensation of the wind combing through his hair, the thud of hooves vibrating in his chest, the glint of blades sparking in his vision. He did not call a halt until the Moonflower Palace had receded behind them to a pale blur in the distance.

  They made camp as the palemoon set, having encountered no trace of the Void. No corroded patches of bare ground marred the way, nor any hint of their presence in his magical sensing. The fighters were in good spirits, telling tales around the flickering campfire and sharing skins of mead. Still, Bran posted lookouts. Although the enemy didn’t seem to be close, he’d learned caution early on. He would not risk his people by being lulled into a false sense of security.

  After an uneventful sleep, they broke camp and continued on. They would reach the border with Rowan in a few turns, and the court itself on the morrow. As they rode, Bran practiced extending the range of his magical net. His wellspring was almost entirely restored after several moons of almost no spell casting.

  Behind them, he could just barely sense the glow of Moonflower, and likewise with Rowan, ahead. To the west, his power brushed against the solidity of the barrier that enclosed Elfhame. It hummed softly, its protections unbroken.

  East and north, the Erynvorn pulsed with living magic.

  He could not discern the gateway, but knew it was there, tucked in a clearing hidden deep within the shelter of the ancient trees. The gate itself held no magic, and he hoped that would render it invisible to the Void. Even if the shard that had lodged within him had sensed the gateway opening and closing, perhaps it had been too embattled to understand what was happening.