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

  That didn’t quite make sense to Mara, but she didn’t argue as Ondo led them to a small clearing beside the path. She slipped down from her mount without help, though her legs protested as she jarred down to earth. It seemed riding called for different muscles than dagger training, and she winced at the thought of the aches ahead.

  It was worth it, though. Not only to be free of the Hawthorne Court, but to be riding toward Bran. The prospect of seeing him again lifted her spirits.

  “I need to relieve myself,” she told Avantor, a bit shyly. “Is there a place…?”

  “Behind that coppice,” the healer said, gesturing to a small grouping of trees. “Do not stray too far, however.”

  She nodded and went into the trees. To her surprise, there was a tiny building tucked in the shadows, with adequate, though limited, facilities. The Dark Elves must use the clearing as a regular stopping point, she guessed. No matter how tiny the trail seemed, it was the main road between Hawthorne and Rowan, after all.

  When she was finished, she stepped outside and took a moment to stretch, relishing the solitude of the woods.

  A twig broke, and she whirled.

  “Who’s there?”

  Only silence greeted her. The birds had fallen silent. A shiver crawled up her back, and she dropped her hand to the handle of her dagger.

  Between one breath and the next, a figure draped in gray charged at her from the left, sharp blades flashing in each hand.

  Mara yelled and whirled to meet the attack, pulling her own blade free. Everything slowed, and with terrible clarity, she saw the sharp-edged steel descending.

  Clang! Against all reason, she was able to parry the first blow with her own dagger, though her arm felt almost numb from the impact. But the attacker’s other knife was sweeping in, and she had only an empty hand to meet it with.

  Blue flame gathered in her belly, and without conscious thought she flung up her palm.

  “Turma!” she cried, invoking the shielding spell Penluith had drilled into her.

  Unlike the weak flicker that was all she’d been able to cast previously, the air around her ignited, the light so bright that Mara had to squint to see anything. Although heat poured from her hands, nothing but coolness enveloped her.

  Her attacker let out a cry and dropped his now-burning blades. The gray cloak he wore wisped away into flame, then smoke, revealing a figure Mara did not recognize.

  “Mara!” Ondo burst from the trees, Avantor close behind.

  Mara’s attacker glanced at them, then fled, melting into the woods as fluidly as he’d appeared.

  As suddenly as the shield had flared to life, it extinguished. Mara’s legs went out. With a gasp, she toppled, managing at the last moment to turn her fall into an inelegant cross-legged sprawl upon the leaf-strewn ground.

  “Are you injured?” Avantor went to his knees beside her and hastily waved his hands over her body.

  “No.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “At least, I don’t think so. He didn’t land a blow.”

  Avantor exchanged a quick look with Ondo.

  “Go after him,” the healer said.

  The warrior pivoted and ran, fleet-footed, in the direction her attacker had gone. Despite Ondo’s speed, Mara doubted he would be able to catch her would-be assassin.

  “How was he able to follow us?” Mara asked as Avantor finished checking her over.

  His face hardened. “Strong magic. Both Ondo and I should have sensed him. And we never should have let you go alone. I beg your forgiveness, Lady Mara.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. How could you have known?” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “We took all care to leave the court undetected. Who would have magic so strong that they could shadow us for hours, undetected?”

  The healer looked at the ground and would not meet her eyes when he spoke. “The rulers of the courts.”

  A chill moved through her. “That wasn’t the Hawthorne Lord or Lady. Are you saying there are other heirs? Or that my attacker was someone from Rowan?”

  “No.” Avantor was quick to correct her. “It is possible to imbue a talisman with magic. A spell of concealment, in this case. But only those of royal blood have the power to create such things.”

  She wanted to bury her head in her hands. The more time she spent in Elfhame, the less she knew.

  “So it probably was someone from Hawthorne,” she mused aloud. “Someone sent by Bran’s parents.”

  His expression troubled, Avantor’s gaze once again went to the scuffed soil.

  “How were you able to summon such a shield?” he asked, clearly changing the subject.

  Mara didn’t press him. How could he admit that at least one of his rulers wanted her dead? Tinnueth seemed the obvious choice. Had the Hawthorne Lady been behind the other attacks on her? Somehow, Mara didn’t think so. If Tinnueth wanted a thing done, she succeeded. The only reason Mara’s assailant had failed was because of her unexpected ability to conjure a mighty shield—something that no one, herself included, knew she was capable of.

  “Penluith taught me the rune,” she said, answering the healer’s question. “Although it was… a little more intense than I’d planned.”

  “That intensity saved your life.” He gave her a long look. “Most attacks can be blunted by casting turma, but in your case, you turned it into weapon of its own. At least, from what I could see. And from those.”

  He nodded at the blackened blades discarded upon the ground. The metal still smoked. When he prodded one knife with a nearby stick, the blade flaked away into ash.

  Mara swallowed. It was gratifying that she could, in fact, protect herself so powerfully. Gratifying, and a bit disturbing. Fighting the Void was one thing. Being able to turn weapons, and potentially, people, into a crisp was something altogether different.

  “When I was working with Penluith, I could barely cast the shield.” She spoke slowly, searching for more answers to her wayward manifestations of power. Even after her visit to the pool, that particular spell had proven elusive. “I suppose… if my wellspring had responded fully, it would have been extremely dangerous.”

  She winced at the thought of the royal tutor on the receiving end of that magical blaze.

  Avantor nodded thoughtfully. “Bran told me your wellspring is one of the deepest he’s ever felt. It makes sense that it must be called upon carefully. Even if you did not realize that you were doing so.”

  “Are you saying my power is smarter than I am?” She gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose we should all be grateful for the fact.”

  Ondo reappeared, his expression harsh.

  “I pursued, but was not able to catch the attacker,” he said. “He had a horse waiting, and I did not want to leave the two of you. Seeing you safely to the Hawthorne Prince is my sworn duty.”

  Avantor gave him a terse nod. “Then we had best be on our way. And on our guard.”

  He offered Mara a hand up, and soon they were mounted and riding the forest trail—though this time with far more caution.

  25

  That evening, after the Rowan Court’s feast, Bran accompanied his warriors back to their quarters and informed them they’d be departing Rowan on the morrow. They sent him curious looks, but made no argument.

  He was sorry to deprive them of their well-earned rest, but there was no help for it. As soon as they had some distance from the court, he would explain—but he knew all too well that walls had ears, and courtiers’ whispered gossip was seldom still.

  He made his way back through the halls to his own room, mulling over the fate of the realm. Both Elfhame and the mortal world were intertwined, no matter how much the Rowan Lords might deny it. Perhaps the answer to his people’s infertility lay beyond the gate, as strange as that notion was.

  Despite being deep in thought, he sensed someone waiting in a shadowed alcove ahead. He dropped his hand to his sword.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded. “I have little patience for games.”

 
“Your pardon, prince.” Nehta stepped forward, hands open before her to show she held no weapon. “I wanted a word.”

  He raised a brow. “And skulking in the corridors is the best way to get one?”

  “In this instance, yes.” Her lips tightened. “I understand you plan to depart Rowan in the morning and make for the Erynvorn.”

  Word traveled fast in the Rowan Court. Too fast. He scowled at her, but she did not flinch from his gaze. Strong—as all good commanders should be.

  “It does not concern you,” he said.

  “Anything that threatens Rowan’s domain—and all of Elfhame—is my concern. When you go, I and a small cohort of warriors will join you.”

  He blinked, not expecting her answer. “I do not think your lords look kindly upon my mission.”

  “They have not spoken against my course of action.” Her voice was bland.

  Which meant that she had not told the Rowan Lords of her plans, and they had not thought to expressly forbid it. Bran bit the inside of his lip, whether to hold back a smile or a reprimand, he was not certain. Perhaps both.

  “I see. In that case, I will not forbid it, either.”

  She tilted her head. “I shall see you on the morrow, my lord.”

  As silently as she had appeared, Nehta was gone. Bran narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want the commander to jeopardize her position with Rowan, but all the same, he was glad of the support. At least someone in the blighted place was being sensible.

  Back in the privacy of his guest room, he set out his scrying bowl and summoned an image of Avantor. The healer’s face wavered in the water, and he looked tired. From the pattern of interlaced branches moving against the stars behind his head, it was clear the party was still on the move.

  “Why have you not made camp?” Bran asked, after exchanging a short greeting.

  Avantor glanced away a moment. “It seemed best to continue. Your wife wishes to see you with all possible haste.”

  Bran peered at Avantor’s dim image, wishing he could see the healer more clearly. Unease prickled the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?”

  Avantor hesitated a heartbeat. “Nothing.”

  Clearly it was more than nothing, but Bran trusted Avantor’s discretion. He let the matter drop—for the time being.

  “You will need to adjust your direction,” he said. “Tell Ondo to make for the western edge of the Erynvorn, where the Dragon Stones lie.” It was a solid landmark, and he knew the experienced scout would be able to lead his party there without difficulty.

  “Why the change in plans?” Avantor gave him a close look. “Is anything amiss?”

  “No.”

  Clearly they were both hiding information—but soon enough they would be face to face, away from unfriendly allies and the machinations of court, and able to speak freely.

  “Let me see him.” Mara’s voice.

  Bran smiled to hear it, though he let no trace of emotions show on his face. Growing up under Tinnueth’s baleful scrutiny, he’d learned that lesson long ago.

  “It is not easy to shift a scrying,” Avantor said, glancing to one side—presumably at Mara.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Try it anyway.”

  “Bran?” Avantor turned to him.

  “One moment.”

  He closed his eyes, calling up the image of his wife’s face. Mara.

  “Now,” he said, opening his eyes.

  The water in his silver scrying bowl shimmered, and then Mara was there, staring intently back at him. She looked weary, and with alarm, he noted the pallor in her usually ruddy human face, the heavy shadows under her eyes.

  “You should rest,” he said curtly.

  Her lips twitched with amusement. “I’m glad to see you too, husband.”

  It went without saying that he felt the same, of course. He shook his head slightly. He’d never understand his human wife.

  “We have been too long apart,” he admitted.

  “Yes.” There was a weight of meaning in that single word, and Bran wondered if she would ever forgive him for leaving her behind.

  He had an apology to make, for certain—but it was best done in person.

  “I will not keep you longer,” he said. “Travel safely.”

  She winced slightly at his words, and he leaned forward, suspicion flaring. Something had happened while they were upon the road.

  “We will,” she said quickly. “How soon until we meet?”

  He firmed his lips, calculating. “Two moons for my party to reach the Erynvorn. Tell Ondo he must be reasonable, and not push you too quickly.”

  “I’ll tell him.” She regarded him a moment longer with her clear blue-green eyes—a color unknown among his people.

  Bran wished he could reach through the scrying bowl and gather her into his arms, smooth the exhaustion from her face, inhale her scent of dew-dappled mint.

  Her reflection shivered, then disappeared.

  “I love you,” he said, to the now-silent water.

  Despite Mara’s urging to press on, Ondo was maddeningly obedient to his commander’s wishes.

  “We will make camp here,” the warrior said, after they had ridden less than an hour from the place they’d spoken with Bran.

  Mara opened her mouth to protest, but Avantor shot her a pained look, and she subsided. Very well. The sooner they rested, the sooner they could set off once more. Grimly, she dismounted and tried to make herself useful as they tended the horses and set up camp.

  Once the tents were pitched and a small supper consumed, Ondo seemed satisfied.

  “I will take the first watch,” he said. “Get what sleep you can, Avantor. I’ll wake you when it is time.”

  “What about me?” Mara glanced between them. “I can watch, or keep you company.”

  “No.” Avantor’s tone was firm. “You must replenish your wellspring. Not to mention finish recovering from the marlock poison.”

  She wanted to argue that she felt perfectly fine, but she knew the healer wouldn’t believe the blatant lie. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to roll into her tent and sleep. And wake in Bran’s arms. Unfortunately, that last wish would have to wait. Soon, she reminded herself.

  “Very well,” she said. “But I want to depart at moonrise.” Would she ever accustom herself to the fact that, in Elfhame, the palemoon replaced the sun?

  The elves exchanged a look, and she tried not to scowl at both of them.

  “We will depart when ready,” Ondo said, which was no kind of promise at all.

  Under Avantor’s watchful eye, she made ready for bed and crawled into the first tent. At least the Dark Elves understood comfort, even when on the road. The bedroll that had been attached behind her saddle turned out, through some enchantment, to grow into a reasonable mattress, and the thin coverlet was surprisingly warm.

  Despite the weariness running through her, though, she could not sleep.

  She replayed her short conversation with Bran, smiling into the darkness as she recalled the sharp planes of his features. And the expression on his face, just as their scrying ended. It seemed clear her husband had missed her as much as she’d longed for him.

  What had happened at Rowan, though, for him to depart so quickly?

  And, even more troubling, why were they headed for the Darkwood?

  When Mara awoke, a silvery wash of moonlight shone brightly through the sloping fabric over her head. Blinking, she scooted out of the tent to find that the palemoon had climbed several hand spans into the star-specked sky.

  “You should have woken me.” She frowned at Ondo, who was tending a small, smokeless fire.

  “Avantor needed to rest, as much as you,” he said, nodding to the second tent where, presumably, the healer still slumbered.

  “Did you sleep at all?” She peered at the warrior. He didn’t seem unduly exhausted, but with his impassive bearing, it was hard to tell.

  Instead of answering, he offered her a mug of strong tea and a hunk of bread stud
ded with seeds and dried fruits.

  “Break your fast,” he said. “Avantor will rouse soon.”

  She had not yet finished her bread when the healer emerged from his tent, proving Ondo correct. He shot the warrior a sharp look, but said nothing.

  “You seem well rested,” Mara observed as Avantor settled beside her on a mossy log. Though the healer would never admit it, it had been clear that tending to her and then scrying with Bran had taken a toll on his powers.

  He looked her up and down. “As do you. And though we might both take issue with Ondo’s decisions, you must admit they are well made.”

  She sighed into her mug, then drained the last bit of the warm beverage. There was nothing more annoying than being proven wrong. At least Ondo, if he overheard, showed no sign of gloating.

  In the time it took for Avantor to eat his breakfast, Ondo packed up the camp, loaded the horses, and brushed away the obvious traces of their presence.

  “Do you think the assassin is still following us?” Mara asked.

  Ondo lifted one shoulder. “Whether or not he is, there’s no need to draw undue attention to our passage. Elfhame holds other dangers.”

  Like the renegade Voidspawn. Mara tried not to shiver at the thought of encountering a gyrewolf or spiderkin. Although, unlike her first experience with the creatures, she now had a wellspring of magic to draw upon.

  Which reminded her…

  “Avantor,” she said, as they set out on the path, “will you teach me the words to cast a fireball?”

  He shot her a startled glance. “I think such things are better left to the tutor. Didn’t Penluith—”

  “No. He was waiting for me to control simple things, like the shield and summoning foxfire—but we now know that my power operates rather differently.”

  Which was an understatement. In fact, would summoning foxfire work as an offensive spell, given the force of her wellspring? If Avantor refused to teach her, she would try that instead, the next time they were attacked.

  Her heart gave an uncomfortable bump at the thought. There would be a next time—she was, unfortunately, certain of the fact. Whatever reason Bran wanted to meet them at the border of the Darkwood, it couldn’t be good.