Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 27

  It was a thin hope, and he knew he was foolish to cling to it. But the thought of the ravenous Void descending on the weak and unsuspecting mortal world made his stomach clench, and distracted him from his immediate purpose.

  He turned his sensing away from the forest and back to the surrounding vicinity. For a moment, he thought he felt a flicker of black—but it was gone before he could reach for it.

  Frowning, he turned in the saddle, but the silvergrass stretched calmly on either side of the road, broken by a few stands of pale birch trees where ashdoves cooed contentedly.

  Still, he would set an extra watch that evening, and cast wards of protection about the camp himself.

  Their sleep proved uneventful, and the palemoon dawned in a wash of lilac and silver. The party had just broken their fast and were packing up bedrolls, when the wards Bran had set blazed with blue fire.

  “Gyrewolves!” one of his youngest fighters cried, scrambling for his bow.

  Bran drew his sword and flung one hand out, casting a magebolt at the lead wolf. There were five of them against his seven. Not the best odds. His warriors would be victorious, but not without taking injuries. Luckily, they could count on their mounts, who were already lashing about with hooves and teeth.

  Gyrewolves used the vicious tactic of attempting to separate a single fighter and tear them to bits. Already his archer, Brethil, was hard-pressed, one of the wolves facing him while a second circled behind, sharp teeth bared.

  “To Brethil!” Bran cried, sprinting to the fighter’s aid.

  Two of his other warriors engaged the lead gyrewolf and were backing toward the embattled archer, who was slashing desperately with his short sword. The last three elves faced the two remaining wolves. One of the creatures rushed forward, snapping, and the other tried to slide between his fighters and the rest of the group.

  “Stay together,” Bran called.

  Whirling, he struck at the beast menacing Brethil. The gyrewolf turned with a snarl, eyes glowing a menacing red.

  “Bran, duck!” one of his warriors called.

  He went to his knees, barely avoiding the lead wolf’s flying leap. Vicious teeth snapped the air where Bran’s neck would have been.

  Brethil managed to score its side as it flew past. Hot blood spattered down onto Bran’s hands. Luckily, gyrewolves did not secrete the same toxic compound as spiderkin.

  A shout of pain came from the group of three. They’d beaten their attackers back, but one of the wolves had managed to charge in, sinking its teeth into one warrior’s leg.

  Time to end this.

  “Keep them at bay,” Bran said, then reached deep into his wellspring. “Coronnar!”

  Flame shot from his fingertips, knocking the two closest gyrewolves back. They howled and twitched, no longer any danger to Bran or his men, and he turned to the remaining three. The lead wolf, again showing unexpected intelligence, had already taken flight, its companions trailing.

  Bran invoked his fire again, sending a ball of flame at the fleeing creatures. It hit the back of the trailing gyrewolf, who yelped and redoubled its speed. An arrow, lofted from Brethil’s bow, followed, but fell short.

  The archer turned to Bran. “Do we pursue?”

  “No. We’ve wounded to tend.” Mouth set, he watched the gyrewolves flee into the distance, heading northeast.

  Toward the Erynvorn.

  The stink of scorched fur hung in the air. Bran toed one of the dead gyrewolves, then turned to his fighters.

  “We need to incinerate them,” he said. Though they were dead, he wanted to leave no stain of the Void upon Elfhame.

  All but his injured warrior joined him in a rough circle around the bodies. Bran spoke the rune for cleansing fire, and the others added their magic—helpful, as his own wellspring had dipped with his use of battle magic. A clean white blaze sprang up, covering the gruesome bodies, and he watched them burn, narrow-eyed.

  Fortune had favored his warriors, and he knew Hestil would not be pleased when he told her of the attack. Still, despite their small numbers, they had fought well.

  Brethil, who had the most healing talent of those present, tended to the wounded fighter’s leg, then performed soothing magics on the smaller injuries. Two of the horses bore claw marks, but they were mostly unscathed.

  The fire burned until the gyrewolves were nothing but blackened ashes on the ground. Then, grimly, Bran and his fighters finished breaking camp, mounted their horses, and made for the Rowan Court.

  21

  Mara dodged Sicil’s dagger thrust, only to have the warrior pivot and bat the weapon from her hand. The little blade landed point-first in the deep moss of the garden, the hilt sticking up like a reprimand.

  “Counterattack,” Sicil said with a stern look. “Do not evade—it puts you at a constant disadvantage. You want your opponent to worry, not toy with you.”

  “I’m trying.” With a sigh, Mara bent and plucked her dagger from the ground, then wiped the blade on her azure skirts.

  “Back to lunge drills,” her instructor said. “Take your stance. Now thrust.”

  At least the muscles of Mara’s thighs didn’t protest too much as she followed Sicil’s instructions. Her body was toughening up, even though she wasn’t yet performing to the warrior’s exacting standards. A quiet life in Little Hazel and her stint as a chambermaid in Castle Raine hadn’t given Mara much need to defend herself, let alone go on the offensive.

  The magic was going better, at least. Although she failed more often than she succeeded, she could now call foxfire and cast rudimentary wards. Every night, she fell into bed exhausted in both mind and body. She welcomed the dark, dreamless embrace of sleep, and pushed herself during the day so that she would not have to think about her precarious place in the Hawthorne Court.

  And to drive back the ache of missing Bran.

  Anneth had promised to help Mara scry for him after her training session with Sicil was finished. Her own efforts along those lines had been fairly unsuccessful. She had not been able to summon Bran to a scrying. Once, she glimpsed her husband’s face, set and unreadable, where he paced in an ornate courtyard ringed with pale flowers, and then the silver water had shimmered back into her own reflection.

  “That is the Moonflower Court,” Penluith had said, from where he was observing over her shoulder.

  “He didn’t seem happy.”

  The tutor pursed his mouth slightly--just the faintest thinning of his lips. “Moonflower is not quick to action.”

  Poor Bran. She hoped he met with less frustration as he continued on to the other courts.

  “Where is he going next?” she asked, thinking of the maps hung in one corner of Bran’s sitting room. “Rowan?”

  “Likely,” Penluith said. “But you would do better to inquire of Sicil about such things.”

  When asked, Sicil had given her a long look, then confirmed that Bran would be headed to Rowan. The knowledge comforted Mara. Instead of staring at the entirety of Elfhame, at least she’d have some notion of where in the land he was.

  “Enough,” Sicil said as Mara finished her last set of lunges. “On the morrow, we will resume sparring against one another.”

  Mara straightened and wiped her sleeve across her sweaty forehead.

  Although at first it seemed ridiculous to train in court gowns, the dresses were surprisingly easy to maneuver in. The fabric had proven durable, despite its gossamer shimmer, and resistant to stains. Not quite as practical as homespun, but perhaps that was her own inability to imagine such garb as everyday wear. The rest of the Hawthorne Court seemed unbothered by such things.

  Mara had seen them go for pleasure rides wearing ornate costumes, eat without a care for their exquisitely embroidered sleeves, and, in the case of the more simply clad warriors, spar without removing their elaborate jewelry. Such things were the Dark Elves’ way.

  After the encounter with the spiderkin, Anneth had insisted Mara send all her clothes for laundering. Since then, Mara had
eyed the dark blue tunic, but not put it on. Perhaps she would do so on the morrow.

  She bade Sicil farewell and returned to the rooms she was beginning to think of as hers. If one could fit themselves around the edges of a magic-wielding warrior prince, that was.

  Still, Mara found that the ways of the Dark Elves had begun to seem less strange. The flavors of the food, though not what she’d grown up with, were now familiar on her tongue. She’d figured out the knack of winding her dresses about herself. And her progress in calling upon her wellspring was heartening.

  As long as she did not imagine herself trapped in the Hawthorne Court for the rest of her life, she thought she could bear the future. If Bran ever came back…

  The kitchens had sent a plate of fruit while she’d been training with Sicil. After freshening up, Mara took a slice of moonmelon and a handful of red berries. The tart berries provided a pleasant counterpoint to the sweet melon. As she chewed, she went to stare at the maps on Bran’s wall.

  Rowan shared a border with Hawthorne, but the courts were at opposite corners from one another. Her hopes that Bran might stop to see her were dashed as she traced the distance with one berry-stained fingertip.

  A sharp cramp in her belly made her gasp and double over. It passed quickly, but was followed by a wave of nausea that had her running to the commode.

  Several shaky minutes later, after emptying the contents of her stomach, she felt better. She rose, washed out her mouth, and went back to the sitting room. The couch felt particularly comfortable, and she sank back into the pillows. She’d just rest until Anneth came.

  Anneth’s knock at the door woke Mara from a light doze.

  “Yes?” she called out sleepily, the tatters of a restless dream still misting her mind.

  “It’s Anneth.”

  “Come in.” Mara sat up and rubbed her eyes. She felt strangely drained, her limbs numb and heavy.

  Bran’s sister opened the door and stepped in, the smile falling from her face when her gaze fell upon Mara.

  “Whatever is wrong? You’re quite pale.”

  “Am I?” Mara looked down at her hands, which seemed normal, despite the slight tingling in her fingertips. “I think maybe the fruit went bad.”

  She gestured at the silver platter set on the table, noting that the red berries had, strangely, turned to black. That would explain her sudden illness and the lingering aftereffects.

  Anneth glanced at the fruit, then gasped, a sharp inhalation edged with fear. “Where did this come from?”

  Anneth’s fright was contagious, and Mara shivered at the stark look on her friend’s face.

  “It was here when I returned from training—I assumed the kitchen sent it up. Why?”

  “Did you eat any of the berries?”

  “A few. Anneth, what—”

  “I must fetch Avantor.” Anneth whirled to the door. “Those are marlock berries. And they’re deadly.”

  She was gone before Mara could ask anything more. Shaken, Mara slumped back on the couch. Someone had tried to poison her—and very nearly succeeded. But how had they managed to pass the wards?

  Someone at the Hawthorne Court wanted her dead. The knowledge was like shards of ice through her belly. As to whom it might be? Both Mireleth’s threats and Tinnueth’s hatred were tangible, and Mara knew that one, or both of them, must be at the heart of the attacks.

  She closed her eyes as a wave of weary bitterness washed over her. If only she could return home. She would give almost anything to be in her own bed, her mother’s warm hand on her forehead.

  The sound of the door opening roused her again. Avantor entered first and sprinted to her side, Anneth following. Mara noticed that she locked the door behind her.

  “Lie still,” the healer said, taking Mara’s hands in his. “This is not going to be comfortable, I’m afraid. But I must drive the poison out of your system as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s all right,” Mara mumbled, her tongue thick in her mouth.

  Avantor began chanting, and the tingling in Mara’s hands intensified. The sensation turned to a blazing fire, sweeping up her arms and into her chest. It took all her self-control to keep from crying out in pain as her body was engulfed in magical flames. Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her lips tightly together. Surely it would be over soon.

  Finally, the heat faded. She pulled in a wavering breath.

  “Done?” she asked.

  Avantor nodded, his expression grave. “The marlock has been purged from your system, but you will feel weak and listless for at least another day.”

  The tear tracks on her face itched, and she pulled her hands from the healer’s grasp in order to swipe her palms over her cheeks. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  Anneth let out a squeak of dismay, but neither she nor Avantor tried to argue otherwise.

  “How did they come into the room?” Mara continued, looking at Anneth. “I thought the wards prevented such things.”

  “They protect from malice and threatening creatures,” Avantor said. “But if an innocent person entered, even bearing such poison, the wards would not be activated.”

  “And marlock berries could be made to look like something perfectly innocent, with a small illusion spell,” Anneth said.

  That would explain the color shift.

  “I’m not safe here,” Mara said. “I have to leave.”

  “Not… back to the human world?” Anneth’s voice was desolate.

  “No.” Not yet, anyway. She had promised Bran she would stay.

  “Perhaps Nightshade,” Avantor began.

  “Not there.” Conviction crystallized inside Mara. “I’ll go join Bran.”

  “I don’t think that is advisable,” Avantor said.

  “Why?” Mara scowled at him. “Don’t try telling me it’s too dangerous. Obviously the Hawthorne Court is worse.”

  He tucked his chin back, affronted. “I only meant that you should not depart immediately. The marlock poison—”

  “Then come with me, to make sure I don’t fall off my horse.”

  “Take Sicil, too,” Anneth said. “You need a warrior with you.”

  Avantor shook his head. “Bran placed her in charge here. She will not abandon her post. But perhaps Ondo, the leader of the scouts, will come.”

  “I will see to your provisions myself,” Anneth said, giving the fruit platter another wary glance.

  “How soon can we leave?” Mara asked. “I don’t want to spend another night within these walls.”

  Avantor gave a sigh of disapproval. “I will speak with Ondo, and scry to Bran, asking him to wait for us at the Rowan Court. I warn you, he will not be pleased.”

  Mara struggled to sit up, her mind already racing with plans—and relief.

  “Trust me, he’d be even less pleased to return to Hawthorne and find me dead. Anneth, help me change into that tunic and trousers, if you would.”

  “And I will take this away.” Gingerly, Avantor scooped up the platter, keeping his fingers well away from the marlock berries. “I will return as soon as I speak with Ondo.”

  Mara nodded at him. Soon enough, she would leave the Hawthorne Court behind. She could hardly wait.

  22

  As Bran and his troop approached the Rowan Court, the summons for a scrying tugged at his attention. He glanced at the pale walls of the palace ahead, then sent out a quick sensing. This close to the court, he was satisfied there was no danger.

  “Go on without me,” he said to his warriors, turning off the roadway and reining Fuin in. “I must take a moment to scry.”

  “I will keep watch,” Brethil said, lifting his bow.

  Bran nodded his assent, and the archer rode a short distance away, giving his commander a modicum of privacy. Wind riffled the tall silvergrass around Fuin’s legs. As soon as the small party had ridden on, Bran quieted his mind and focused on the summons.

  Avantor’s face shimmered in the air before him, and the sight of the healer sent
a stab of apprehension into his gut.

  “What is it?” Bran demanded. “Is Mara well? Anneth?”

  “Both are… well enough.”

  Bran frowned at Avantor’s hesitation. “Tell me.”

  “Someone slipped marlock berries to Mara.” The healer held up his hand, stilling Bran’s startled interruption. “Her own body knew enough to rid itself of what it could, and my healing did the rest. She is recovering and will be back to full health soon.”

  “Someone tried to poison my wife?” Bran tensed with anger. “I will return immediately.”

  “No. We are coming to you. Mara wants to leave the Hawthorne Court, and I cannot persuade her otherwise.”

  Despite the black tide of anger rising in him, Bran could not hold back a tight smile. His beloved was strong-willed—one of the things he cherished about her. “In that case, come to Rowan. We’ve just arrived. She will be safe here.” And with him.

  “We will be on our way soon.” Avantor’s image faded.

  Frowning, Bran turned to survey the graceful pillars of the Rowan Court rising from the meadows ahead. Behind the palace, a grove of birch trees whispered. The sight was not enough to ease the tight knot from his throat.

  Marlock berries. He had not imagined needing to warn Mara about them. What other dangers had he overlooked?

  He’d been a fool to leave her behind. Would she forgive him for believing that the Hawthorne Court was safer than traveling with him? He should have listened to her.

  “I won’t fail you again, Mara Geary,” he said softly into the breeze. “That, I promise you.”

  The palemoon had set by the time Mara felt well enough to leave the Hawthorne Court. Despite her strong words to Avantor, she was not fool enough to set out while her body still trembled and fatigue fogged her mind. Still, she was resolved not to sleep again within the treacherous walls of the palace.