Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles) Page 28

  In any case, it was better to depart while most of the courtiers were asleep. The fewer people who knew she’d left, the safer she would be.

  She’d considered staying at the court and coming up with some intricate plot to unmask her enemy. But, in truth, she did not have the allies or resources to do so. Her naivety about Elfhame had already put her in mortal danger, first with the spider and second with the berries. What else was she unaware of that might be her undoing?

  Avantor had suggested she remain in Bran’s rooms under heavy guard until the prince returned. She’d quickly rejected that idea. The Hawthorne Court was prison enough. Being trapped in a small set of rooms for who knew how long would surely drive her mad.

  Besides, Bran had been informed she was coming to Rowan. Surprisingly, according to Avantor, he hadn’t argued.

  So she had rested for a time under the healer’s watchful eye, and then, with Anneth’s aid, gathered a small bundle of her belongings, donned the tunic and trousers, and belted on her dagger. After helping her, Anneth had slipped down to the kitchens to fetch them provisions.

  “Go make ready,” Mara told Avantor, who was hovering about her in an annoyingly solicitous manner. “I’ve got my dagger, and I promise not to open the door to anyone but you or Anneth.”

  “Keep it locked,” the healer said, clearly reluctant to leave her alone.

  “I will.” She let a touch of exasperation edge her voice. “Now, go. The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

  He gave her a tight nod, then cracked the door open and surveyed the hallway. Satisfied that no one was lurking, he slipped out. Mara shot the bolt home as soon as the door closed.

  Despite her brave words, she did not feel entirely comfortable being alone in the palace. But whoever was trying to kill her had used subtle means, thus far. Surely she was not in any immediate danger.

  She spent the minutes looking at the map of Elfhame mounted on the far wall. The Darkwood covered the northeast section, depicted on the map in deep purple. The parchment did not hint at the fact that the gateway back to her world lay hidden in the depths of the forest.

  And although it seemed all of Elfhame knew of the portal, mostly they did not care. The human world was of little interest to Dark Elves—all except Anneth, who had made a study of all things mortal. A hobby that was, apparently, mocked by the denizens of Hawthorne.

  A flame of anger flickered in Mara’s chest. Without that gate, and her own presence, Elfhame would have been consumed by the darkness of the Void.

  Her temper cooled as she recalled that they were still a doomed people. The end was coming. Slowly, but inexorably, until the last of the Dark Elves grew old and faded away.

  No. She clenched her hands into fists. It was not right, that she had given up her world in order to save Bran’s, just so that he could watch his people die. The prophecy could not be finished yet.

  Though she had no notion how to reverse the infertility of an entire population. If it could be done by magic, surely the Dark Elves would have done so. But what else was left?

  Avantor’s return pulled her from such unhappy musings, and Anneth followed soon after. She distributed the neatly wrapped packets of food, along with three full water skins.

  “This should be enough to get you to Rowan, with extra to spare,” she said. “Is Ondo meeting you here?”

  “No,” Avantor replied, tucking away the extra provisions. “He is gathering the horses. We are to meet him behind the stables when we’re ready to depart.”

  “Which we are.” Mara looked to Avantor. “Yes?”

  The healer gave her a short nod, and Anneth stepped forward to embrace Mara.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Please, be careful.”

  “I will—and it’s not that far to Rowan. Avantor can scry you with our progress.” At least, Mara assumed he could.

  Quietly, they walked down the dimly lit corridors. Mara warily eyed the patches of shadow between the foxfire balls, but no one skulked there, waiting to leap out at her.

  When they reached Anneth’s rooms, she squeezed Mara’s hand, then slipped inside. The fewer people moving about the halls, the better chance they’d go undetected. Mara felt even more lonely once she was gone. Avantor was not poor company, exactly, but she would sorely miss Anneth’s light spirits and the impish sweetness of her smile.

  Silently, Mara and Avantor made their way to the door leading to the gardens. Outside, a faint wash of starlight lay silver on the closed buds of the flowers, and a soft breeze murmured in the leaves.

  A single glimglow roused as Mara passed, rising to bob in the air like a small beacon. Avantor gave her a wide-eyed glance. They could not risk discovery.

  “Shh,” Mara told it, waving the glowing creature away.

  As if understanding their urgency, the glimglow sank back and tucked itself under a spray of ferns, its light dimming to a soft golden pulse.

  Swallowing with relief, Mara followed Avantor past the furled blossoms and dark-leaved hedges until they reached the back of the stables. Ondo awaited them, as promised, with three mounts.

  Her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Mara glanced up at the tall creature meant as her mount. Sudden yearning for Bran stabbed through her as she recalled her first ride to the Hawthorne Court, perched before him on Fuin. It had not been comfortable, riding with a forbidding warrior mage, but now she missed his strong, taciturn presence with every inch of her body.

  Soon. She would see him in a few moons, according to Avantor.

  Ondo made quick work of stowing their bags and provisions behind the saddles, then glanced at her.

  “Milady,” he said in a quiet voice, indicating that she should mount.

  Clenching her jaw, Mara took hold of the pommel and, with a boost from the scout, managed to land atop her horse. Unlike riding in the human world, the Dark Elves used no reins or bridle. Mara set her hands on the pommel and hoped her mount knew what to do. Mostly, it just needed to follow Ondo, who guided his horse ahead of hers. Avantor, expression unhappy, took up the rear.

  The scout led them single file through the hushed grounds to an arch in the wall. It was high enough for them to ride beneath, and between one breath and the next, they were through.

  As she emerged beyond the walls, tension ebbed from Mara, and she looked back over her shoulder at the shimmering stones of the palace. The arched windows, curved columns, and graceful towers rose into the star-speckled sky like an enchanted dream.

  With a poisoned heart.

  Letting out a low breath, she turned her back on the Hawthorne Court and let the stillness of the realm of Elfhame enfold her.

  23

  “Prince Brannonilon.” Pharne, the primary Rowan Lord, greeted Bran with a weary smile. “We have been expecting you. Welcome.”

  “Is all well?” Bran glanced at the party who had gathered to greet him at Rowan’s gates.

  The black-haired Lords, their quiet daughter, who had been born to Pharne’s mistress just before the Dark Elves became unable to conceive, and a handful of warriors. Even here, in the court, their stances were wary.

  “My scouts have encountered Voidspawn recently.” Lord Pharne shook his head. “It is troubling, to say the least.”

  “Very,” Lord Indil agreed.

  “Are the creatures behaving strangely?” Bran asked. At least he wouldn’t have to try to convince Rowan of the danger, unlike his experience with the leaders of Moonflower.

  “Yes.” Rowan’s commander, Nehta, stepped forward—a soft-voiced woman who was reputedly fearsome in battle. “Twice now, they have set ambushes for our scouts—but if outnumbered, they disengage and flee.”

  “Toward the Erynvorn?” Bran asked, though he knew the answer.

  “Aye.”

  Unease settled on his shoulders. “Troubling, indeed. I have received word from my second-in-command—and confirmed it with my own magic—that the inner courts are free of all traces of the Void. What
ever creatures remained after the Void’s defeat, they seem to be gathering in the forest.”

  “To mount another attack?” Nehta asked, fingers tightening on the pommel of her sword.

  “Perhaps.” Bran looked from her to the Rowan Lords. “We should speak more of this, privately. Also, my wife will be arriving in three moons.”

  Lord Indil’s dark brows rose, perfect arches of surprise. “The mortal woman?”

  “Her name is Mara. I expect you to treat her with all courtesy.”

  “Of course we will.” Lord Pharne glanced at his husband, then back to Bran. “Is there… any particular reason she is joining you?”

  “It is time for her to leave Hawthorne, but she is not coming here because we expect a battle at Rowan,” Bran said, offering what reassurance he could. “The Void rift has been closed, beyond a doubt. And there are not enough remaining Voidspawn to overrun a court.” He hoped.

  Lord Pharne gave him a tight nod, but the Rowan commander’s pale blue eyes slitted thoughtfully. Nehta was a clever woman, and Bran could see her coming to the same conclusion he had: there might not be a fight coming to the Rowan Court, but nonetheless, one loomed.

  It was up to him to eradicate the Void creatures, with whatever reinforcements Rowan could lend. Hestil was on her way too, but it would be at least a doublemoon before she arrived—which might well be too late.

  He hated to think of Mara’s reaction when he told her of the threat to her world. There would be no stopping her from riding into battle with him—and, in truth, he was glad of it. They had been too long apart.

  “Come, refresh yourselves,” Lord Indil said, gesturing Bran and his party forward. “Prince Brannonilon, let us meet in the royal library in a turn, if that suits?”

  “A half turn will suffice.” The sooner they discussed strategy, the better.

  The Rowan Lord nodded and held his arm out to his partner. The couple led their guests through the arched entrance of the Rowan Court. As they strode the foxfire-lit halls, Bran took note of the difference between Rowan and Hawthorne.

  In keeping with its namesake, the ceilings of the Rowan Court featured carvings of bright berries and branched leaves, the sprays trailing down to wind about the foxfire sconces. The corridors were a hand span narrower than those of Hawthorne, and as they walked, Bran calculated the distance of his sword swing.

  If pressed, there would be just enough room to fight. Not that he was anticipating needing to do so. And he always had his magic, of course, but a warrior’s training kept him on the alert.

  Nehta led Bran’s soldiers to their guest quarters, and the Rowan Lords ushered him deeper into the palace.

  “We hope you are comfortable here.” Lord Indil halted, indicating a door inlaid with silver moons.

  “I’m certain I will be.” Bran nodded his thanks.

  “Then we’ll see you in a half turn.” Lord Pharne gave him a tight smile. “I look forward to discussing how to deal with this current threat.”

  “As do I.”

  “I am not certain it is necessary to pursue the Voidspawn into the Erynvorn,” Lord Indil said, leaning forward with an earnest look on his face. “As long as they are not attacking the courts, why risk our warriors?”

  With effort, Bran kept his claws from extending, though he wanted to shred the plush upholstery on the armchair he was occupying. The Rowan Lords’ library was full of opulent furnishings and gilded scrolls—too soft a place to be discussing strategy, in Bran’s opinion. But there was nothing he could do about it, except try to rein in his temper.

  “It is our duty to eradicate the remaining Voidspawn,” he said tightly. “Elfhame is not safe until they are gone.”

  “That is the point,” Lord Pharne said. “If we wait, the problem may well take care of itself.”

  Bran frowned at him. “Are you honestly suggesting we let the creatures roam freely, until they expire?”

  A sly expression crossed Lord Pharne’s face. “We both know there is another way to expel the creatures from Elfhame, without sustaining more losses.”

  Surely the Rowan Lord wasn’t implying they let the Voidspawn invade the human world? Yet, as Bran studied his face, it was clear that Lord Pharne meant precisely that.

  “No.” Bran clenched his hands. “I cannot believe you are suggesting such a thing. The gateway between our realm and the human world must remain closed.”

  “We cannot lose more of our people,” Lord Indil said, leaning forward. “Prince Brannonilon, you know as well as I that we are doomed. The life of every Dark Elf is more precious than ever, now. Why not open the gateway and let the Voidspawn depart?”

  “Because humans are completely unprepared for an incursion of the Void,” Bran said tightly. “We have magic to keep the darkness from tearing another rift into our world—but the mortals do not. They would have no idea how to combat the Void.”

  Lord Pharne shrugged slightly. “The Void has eaten many realms. What happens outside of Elfhame is not our concern.”

  His husband nodded. “We cannot save every world. It is enough that Elfhame is safe, no matter that our people might be dying out. Prince Brannonilon, surely you see that the Dark Elves cannot be protectors of all other realms?”

  Bran clamped his mouth closed on the shouts of protest thundering in his chest. The Rowan Lords were right… and wrong.

  “If the Void overruns the human world,” he argued, “they will gain enough strength to force the gateway open into our world once more. Elfhame will not be safe.”

  “But how long will that take?” Lord Indil asked, his voice mild. “The last of us may well be gone by that point, and thus it will not matter if our realm falls into shadow.”

  Unable to sit a moment longer, Bran rose, breaking protocol. He didn’t care if he loomed over the lords. They should be glad he wasn’t sending mage bolts sizzling into the shelves.

  “This is the thanks you give me, and my human wife, for saving our world?” He didn’t bother to control his temper any longer. “I thought you had more honor than that.”

  Lord Indil had the grace to look ashamed, but Lord Pharne simply cocked a brow. “We are not saved, Hawthorne Prince. The end is simply delayed.”

  “Are you saying you no longer trust the Oracles?”

  Lord Pharne rose, his graceful movements marred by tension in his shoulders. “Your prophecy promised to save Elfhame, Prince Brannonilon. It did not explicitly say you would keep our people from perishing.”

  “Surely the prophecy meant the Dark Elves as well as our lands!”

  “We cannot know that.” Lord Indil stood, joining his partner in facing Bran. “You are welcome to our hospitality, but we will not send our warriors with you into the Erynvorn.”

  Bran narrowed his eyes. He wanted to throw their so-called hospitality back in the Rowan Lords’ faces and storm out immediately, but he must think of his own soldiers. They needed a respite from the road. A pity it would be shorter then they’d anticipated.

  “We will not overstay your hospitality,” he said stiffly. “On the morrow, we will depart.”

  He and his warriors would rendezvous with Mara on the road. If he could, he would keep the information from her that Rowan was content to let the Voidspawn loose on the mortal world. She was already unhappy in Elfhame, and knowing that the Dark Elves cared nothing for the plight of humans would not make her any more kindly disposed toward his world. Rather the opposite.

  “As you wish,” Lord Pharne said. “Your party is, of course, welcome to join us for the evening meal.”

  Although Bran was inclined to sulk in his rooms, his position as Hawthorne Prince dictated otherwise. He inclined his head in an attempt at graciousness. “We will.”

  The food would be tasteless, the conversation strained, but he and his soldiers would take what nourishment they could before setting out once more in pursuit of the Voidspawn.

  24

  The palemoon rose as Mara and her companions rode through dappled birch groves
and meadows of silvergrass. Ondo led, following a narrow trail just wide enough for the horses to traverse. It seemed traveled enough that no branches crossed the pathway, no underbrush covered the trail.

  Mostly, they rode in silence. The scout was a quiet fellow, and although Avantor answered Mara’s questions about various foliage and the small animals they encountered, such things did not lead to long conversations.

  She supposed they were worried about the attempt on her life—as was she.

  “Do you think Anneth is safe, remaining in Hawthorne?” she asked, craning her neck back to address Avantor.

  The healer lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I see no reason why she would be in danger.”

  Mara pressed her lips together. He was probably correct, but she still did not like leaving her friend behind.

  She’d asked Anneth to come with them, but Bran’s sister had shaken her head.

  “One of us must stay and try to uncover who it is that means you harm,” she said. “I am the best candidate. After all, no one else knows that I’m aware of the attempts on your life.”

  She’d pressed Mara’s hand and told her not to worry, and nothing Mara said would sway her.

  And now, the court was several hours’ ride behind them and all questions of staying or going were past answering. Mara took a deep breath of the flower-scented air and tried not to fret. Elfhame was not the human world, but its ethereal beauty was soothing.

  “Are you weary?” Ondo glanced back at her. “We can make camp soon.”

  She shook her head, denying the wave of exhaustion washing through her. “I’ll ride as long as you think necessary.”

  His eyebrows drew together slightly. From behind her, Avantor let out a short laugh.

  “Do not wait for Mara to call a halt, Ondo. She is as tough as a stone, and will ride until the brightmoon rises, if you let her.”

  “Hm.” The warrior’s brow smoothed. “We’ll take a short rest to eat, then, before continuing on. The more time we make now, the shorter our journey will be.”