by Anthea Sharp
At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais, and upon it sat the Hawthorne Throne, occupied by Bran’s father, Calithilon Luthinor. The years lay lightly on his face, as was the way of their people, but silver threaded his once midnight hair, and his dark eyes held a weary cast.
Beside the ornately carved Hawthorne Throne stood a smaller, less elaborate chair where Bran’s mother, Tinnueth, sat. There was no trace of warmth or greeting in her expression, but that was no different from the reception he’d received from her all his life.
According to the gossip, the moment the prophecy had been pronounced over his newborn head, his mother had distanced herself. Although even with his younger sister, Anneth, their mother had never displayed an excess of affection.
“A heart like ice,” the nursery servants used to say after Tinnueth paid her obligatory visits to her young offspring.
Bran wasn’t supposed to understand, but he did. He’d grown up thinking he was flawed, unworthy of his mother’s care, and perhaps it had made him hard, but all good weapons must be made of stern stuff. Without that core of stone, he would not be half the warrior he was.
A warrior who held the fate of Elfhame on his shoulders—and that fate was growing more perilous every day.
From his dais, the Hawthorne Lord lifted his hand in a clear summons, his eyes meeting Bran’s. Letting no hint of his reluctance show on his face, Bran made his way toward his parents. He murmured greetings to the courtiers as he slid past them like water. Most let him go with a nod or reply, but his passage was halted when a particularly cloying young woman named Mireleth gripped his sleeve.
“I’m so glad you’re back at court, milord,” she said, in a low voice that was meant to be seductive.
He nodded and disengaged himself from her hold. Despite their few dalliances, he was not interested in pursuing a connection with the woman. She, however, seemed unable to grasp that fact.
“I’ll visit you later,” she called as Bran strode away.
He did not respond. Even if he’d fancied Mireleth, the prophecy was very clear concerning his fate. He was destined to marry some ungainly mortal. There was no escaping it, but his life would be a little less miserable if he did not fall in love in the meantime.
Soon enough he reached the dais and dipped into a formal bow before his parents.
“Prince Brannon, you took your time in coming,” his father said. “I sent that summons a quarter moon ago.”
“Your pardon, my lord.” Bran kept his tone level. “I could not leave the front until we’d closed the current breaches and reinforced the barrier.”
Even then, it was risky for him to be gone. As one of the leaders, and the strongest magic user among the Dark Elf forces, they couldn’t afford for him to be away from the battle for long. But ignoring his father’s summons would have been worse.
His mother gave a delicate sniff, conveying her disapproval and disappointment. Bran ignored her.
“Is the fight going well?” his father asked.
“Well enough.”
It was an outright lie, but Bran would say no more where the sharp ears of the courtiers might hear. Later, in the privacy of his father’s chambers, he would confide the desperate position the Dark Elves were in.
And although he’d been dreading the fulfillment of the prophecy his entire life, if it didn’t happen soon there would be nothing left to save. The Void creatures infiltrating their world would destroy Elfhame and all its courts. By now, Bran almost welcomed his fate. Almost.
“It’s good to have you back in the Hawthorne Court,” his father said. “Meet with me later in my library, and you can recount to me your glorious tales of battle.”
The look in Lord Calithilon’s eyes promised that Bran would know then why he’d been summoned. It was not something he looked forward to hearing—though if it had to do with the prophecy, then perhaps the news would not be so unwelcome. The fate of Elfhame was paramount to his own wishes.
“My lord.” Bran bowed again, then stepped away.
He hated the dance of protocol, the layers of meaning hidden behind veiled words. And he hated to wait, especially when the barrier was not nearly as strong as everyone thought. As soon as he could escape the court for the haven of his rooms, he’d contact the front and see how they were holding.
Halfway across the throne room, he glimpsed his sister standing near the wall and altered his course to meet her. She was alone, a glass of nectar in her hand. As he approached he could see her struggling to keep her features composed in the cool expression required of court protocol.
“Lady Anneth.” He bowed before her, and could not prevent the corner of his mouth from curling up into a brief smile. His sister was the one person at court he truly cared for, and missed.
“Bran.” She held up the golden glass of nectar to hide her grin. “I’m so glad you’re home. How long can you stay?”
He glanced about, checking to make sure no eavesdroppers hovered nearby. “Not long, I’m afraid. They need me back at the battle.”
Anneth’s blackberry-colored eyes lost their merry sparkle. “Truly?”
“Don’t look so unhappy. I’ll sup with you at eventide, and you can tell me all the gossip of the court. Have you any suitors?”
A faint blush stained her pale skin. “Not to speak of.”
Bran arched a brow at her. “We’ll see about that.”
“You have your own future to think about, as well. Now that father…” She busied herself with her glass of nectar.
“What?” Cold foreboding swept through him.
“It’s not for me to say—and besides, he’s only dropped hints here and there.” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “I don’t know anything for certain. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I will.” The sooner the better.
Bran glanced at the dais, to see Lady Tinnueth watching them with a calculating expression. What scheme were his parents brewing?
“I’ll see you at supper.” Bran made his sister a bow of farewell, then strode from the hall.
He did not slow his steps until he’d reached the privacy of his rooms in the family wing. Although he was not much in residence lately, everything was kept clean and ready for his arrival.
He wanted to throw the bedroom shutters wide to the dusky air and fill his lungs with freshness instead of the stultifying formality of court. Instead, he made sure they were firmly latched. To counter the dimness in the room, he conjured a flickering ball of foxfire. The pale blue light bobbed at his shoulder as he checked the door, then went over to his saddlebags. On his orders the servants had left them undisturbed, though the head houseman had frowned mightily when Bran requested they leave the unpacking for him to do.
He drew out his silver scrying bowl, then poured a measure of water from the ewer on the nightstand until the bottom of the bowl was covered. Slowly, he sank down on the forest-green carpet in the center of his bedroom. It was not as soft as the mosses he was used to perching upon, but it did have the advantage of being dry.
With the ball of foxfire hovering above his head, Bran took several deep breaths to focus his magic. He held the bowl between his cupped hands. The surface was lit with pale blue, and the dark shadow of his silhouette.
He spoke the Rune of Scrying. The hiss of the word of power twisted round the bowl. Light flared up and Bran squinted against that brightness. When it faded, he bent over the surface.
“Show me Hestil,” he said.
The image of the second-in-command of the Dark Elf forces appeared, shivering over the top of the water and then coming into focus: thin nose, narrow eyes the color of malachite, dark hair braided back from a battle-weary face.
“Well met in shadow,” Hestil said.
“And in starlight,” Bran answered, the code words assuring her that he was alone and not under duress. “How goes the fight?”
Her lips tightened. “We’re holding, but your magic is sorely missed. How soon can you return?”
&nb
sp; Bran gave a sigh that fluttered the surface of the water, making Hestil’s reflection waver. The Dark Elves could not win. Every time they threw back the invaders, another breach opened and more twisted creatures flowed out of the crack between the worlds. Even if Bran revealed how dire the situation was and brought every magic-wielding elf to the front, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
But he would not share such hopeless thoughts with his second.
“I meet with my father later,” he said.
“Well, I hope your precious prophecy chooses to manifest soon. Doesn’t it say that during Elfhame’s greatest need, a doorway will open, bringing help?”
“That’s one interpretation.” Other than specifying that Bran must wed whatever mortal opened the door, the prophecy was annoyingly vague.
Hestil’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say the moment of need is fast approaching—especially if you dawdle overlong in your father’s court.”
“I’ll return as quickly as I can. I know how desperate our situation is.” He made his voice cold. It was not for Hestil to question her commander.
She dipped her head in apology. “I must go.”
“Of course. I’ll come soon.”
He waved his hand over the bowl and Hestil’s image disappeared. His own reflection stared up at him, skin pale as moonlight, slitted eyes filled with violet shadows, dark slashes of eyebrows drawn down in a frown.
Though he knew it was useless—he’d tried it hundreds of times—he spoke the Rune once more. The silver light flared about the circumference of the bowl, and he gave his command.
“Show me the woman of the prophecy.”
As usual, the water remained a blank pool of light, revealing nothing. Bran stared into it, willing something, anything, to appear. The force of his need and frustration burned through him.
“Show her to me,” he demanded again, pulling deeply on his wellspring of magic.
The surface of the water shuddered.
He leaned forward, barely breathing. As if through a mist, he made out the figure of a mortal woman running through a forest. Her long mud-colored hair was tangled, and he glimpsed her face for one moment—the smooth curve of her cheek, a stubborn tilt to her chin, desperation in her strange blue eyes.
Then she was gone.
Only empty water stared up at him. His power subsided and the tremble in his fingers sent a faint ripple across the surface. Bran passed his hand over the bowl, dismissing the magic, then gently set the silver bowl aside. Closing his eyes, he fixed the glimpse of the woman firmly in his mind.
She did not seem old or disfigured, she looked healthy, and even through the scrying bowl he sensed the determination of her spirit.
Thank the double moons.
Now if he could somehow drag her through the sealed doorway, there might be hope for Elfhame.
3
That night, as Mara hung up her serviceable woolen skirt in the small wardrobe she shared with Fenna, she felt a hard lump in the pocket.
Brow creasing, she reached into her skirt pocket. Warm glass met her fingers. Carefully she pulled it out to find the skeleton key had reappeared.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked it, not a little annoyed.
She’d scoured the Great Hall and the corridors in a fruitless search for the key—and it had been in her pocket all along. How could she have overlooked it? She held it up to the light, just to make sure it was really there. The skull grinned back at her.
“I thought you were giving that to Mrs. Glendel,” Fenna said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, brushing her hair.
“I tried,” Mara said. “Truly, I did. I turned my pockets out and everything.”
“You can’t keep it.” Fenna’s tone clearly conveyed that she thought Mara was lying.
“I know.” Blast it! “I don’t want to lose my position here any more than you do.”
She’d just started settling into the rhythm of life at the castle, for once making a place for herself that was not defined by her family.
Not that she imagined herself as a maid for the rest of her years. This was a stepping stone out of her predictable life in Little Hazel, the first rung on her journey toward something better. When the announcement had come from the castle that they were hiring new servants, she’d been one of the first applicants in line.
“Are you quite certain?” her mother had asked.
“Oh, yes.” A year of hard work, maybe two, and Mara would have saved up enough to travel.
To the coast, at least, and perhaps she’d even book passage on a ship bound for foreign lands. Somewhere out there in the wider world her life was waiting for her—she just knew it.
All that waited for her back in the village was a boy besotted with her that she had no feelings for whatsoever, a family immersed in their own lives, and a hopelessly monotonous future.
The key rested, heavy in her hand. Mara pressed her lips together in thought as she stared down at it. She’d never seen any door in the castle that it might open; they all had large cast-iron locks that would require a much longer and wider key than this.
The glass shone as if lit faintly from within, full of promise. Full of magic.
“I’ll keep the key for you,” Fenna said, twisting a tie about her hair and standing. “Give it to me for safekeeping and tomorrow morning we can go together to give it to the housekeeper.”
“Come with me if you like.” Mara closed her hand around the key. “But I’ll just put this back in my pocket for now.”
The other girl gave her a hard look. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Mara slipped the key back into her skirt pocket. “Stay there,” she told it sternly.
What if you find the door it opens? part of her whispered. If you give the key back, it will stay locked forever.
Mara glanced at her roommate. Fenna had her arms crossed, a suspicious look in her eyes.
“I don’t want to get in trouble along with you,” Fenna said.
“You won’t.” Mara shut the wardrobe door, closing the key safely inside.
She blew out the candle beside her bed and climbed under the covers. Fenna did the same, and the room was soon filled with the other girl’s gentle snores.
Sleep did not come so easy for Mara, and when it finally arrived, it pulled her down into nightmares.
She ran through a dark forest, something immense chasing her, and she knew she’d never reach safety in time. Monsters shambled in the shadows, watching her with glowing eyes. A bell tolled midnight.
Gasping, Mara sat up in bed, the sheet wound tightly around her body. The castle was silent. Fenna still snored in the other bed.
It was just a dream, Mara told herself, though her hammering heart insisted otherwise. She needed to go back to sleep. A maid’s work began at an ungodly hour, and she’d never been fond of waking before the dawn.
Instead, she ignored all common sense and silently slipped out of bed. The stone floor pulled the warmth from the soles of her bare feet as she padded over to the wardrobe and opened the door.
Silvery radiance lit the inside of the wardrobe, and Mara sucked in a breath. The key glowed from within the pocket of her skirt like a tiny, vibrant star. If she took it out, she feared it would blind her.
“Stop it,” she whispered. “I can’t keep you.”
She couldn’t go haring off in search of some mystery door when she had yet to receive her first month’s pay.
The light dimmed somewhat, and she found herself wondering if the key had any value. But that was silly. If she ran away from the castle bearing a magical key, certainly the king would send riders after her. She wouldn’t make it to Little Hazel, let alone the city of Meriton beyond.
Slowly, she closed the wardrobe door, then crept back into bed. As her feet warmed up again beneath the blankets, she turned the problem over and over in her mind, but could find no way she could possibly keep the key. Even if it was magic.
First thing in the mor
ning she would have to give it to Mrs. Glendel, and that would be the end of it.
Mara and Fenna stood before Mrs. Glendel’s desk. The whole chilly walk to the housekeeper’s office, Mara had kept her hand closed tightly around the key, reassuring herself it hadn’t disappeared. The narrow corridors were dark and unfriendly, and it had felt like miles, but at last they’d arrived. Good thing, too, as her hand was starting to cramp.
“Mara’s here to give you the key we found,” Fenna said.
“Good.” Mrs. Glendel gave Mara a stern look. “Let’s see it.”
Mara pulled her hand out of her pocket and opened her fingers. A knobbled stick sat in her palm, and she stared at it, cold disbelief running through her.
“Very funny, Mara.” Mrs. Glendel did not sound amused. “The key, if you please.”
“I… But… I swear it was right here, in my hand.”
Anger swept hotly through her. The key was playing terrible tricks on her, and was about to cost her everything.
“She has it,” Fenna declared. “I saw her with it last night, clear as you please. And she refused to give it to me to look after.”
Mara set the useless twig down on the housekeeper’s desk. She stared at it, willing it to change back into the glass key, but nothing happened.
“Produce the key.” Mrs. Glendel’s voice was cold.
“I don’t know where it is. Search me, if you like.” Trembling with hot frustration, Mara turned out her pockets.
There was no explanation she could make. The key existed, and Fenna had seen her holding it the night before. Any talk of magic wouldn’t be believed, and instead would be taken as Mara trying to make weak excuses for her behavior.
“Fenna,” the housekeeper said, “run upstairs and make a thorough search of your room and all Mara’s belongings. Mara, you will remain here.”
Fenna made Mrs. Glendel a quick curtsey, then sent Mara a sour look as she left.
“I must say, I’m disappointed in you,” Mrs. Glendel said. “You showed promise as a maid. I didn’t pin you as the lying, stealing kind.”
“I’m not!” But there was no way to prove it.
