by Anthea Sharp
“Marriages are not often broken,” Mara admitted. “But surely there is recourse among the Dark Elves? What if the union is an unhappy one?” As theirs surely would be.
“Then the couple may choose to live apart. But the bond will not be broken.”
Her throat constricted, and she could barely breathe. She would have to do it. She would have to marry the fearsome Dark Elf who stood before her.
But she had her own price for doing so.
She gathered all her strength and made herself stand tall, meeting his gaze. “If I marry you, swear to me you’ll do everything in your power to send me back home. Swear it.”
He regarded her for a long moment, violet eyes glowing. At last he gave her a slow nod.
“Mara Geary, I swear to you on the seven bright stars and the pale moon, on my own blood and breath, that after you marry me and we defeat the Void, I will find a way to return you to the mortal world. You have my oath.”
She drew in a ragged breath. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. And he was the strongest magic user among the Dark Elves. Surely he would be able to free her from Elfhame and open the doorway back home.
The final battle with the Void was looming, and directly afterward she would insist he honor his promise. If she were fortunate, her imprisonment among the Dark Elves would be over soon. Until then, she hoped she was strong enough to bear being his bride.
“Very well,” she said. “On that condition, I will marry you.”
He made her a low bow. “It will be my honor.”
He almost sounded as though he meant it. Before she could respond, he turned and let himself out the door. It closed firmly behind him.
Anneth stepped into the room and tossed a towel over the spilled juice.
“He will do his best for you,” she said. “I pray you give him as much in return.”
“I will.” Mara had a promise to keep, too, much as she might abhor it. “Now, tell me everything about your Dark Elf weddings.”
17
The palemoon skimmed the horizon and cast soft shadows over the palace gardens. Bran walked the paths between the glowing flowers, paying no heed to the beauty of his surroundings.
It seemed Mara would never forgive him.
But despite everything, she would wed him. He was thankful for that, although the prospect was clearly odious to her. In return for her sacrifice, he must find a way to undo a hundred years of magic and open the door back into the mortal world.
There would be repercussions from that act he did not want to contemplate. But it was the price he had sworn to pay, and pay it he would. The pang he felt at the thought had nothing to do with Mara leaving forever. There was no point in her remaining in Elfhame to live out a life of misery married to a man she detested.
He let out a low breath. Not quite a sigh; princes didn’t sigh.
They would wed when the brightmoon rose, then return to the front and hope for a miracle.
Bran balled up one fist and tapped it against his leg. They needed more time! Time to teach Mara how to access her wellspring of power and harness it to her will. Time for her to learn more of Elfhame and his people. Time to rebuild the fragile understanding he had felt growing between them.
In a rare moment of indulgence, he found himself wishing for a different future. One where they walked companionably together through the gardens. One where Mara smiled at him again, her strange, lovely eyes sparkling with laughter.
Impossible. He shook his head to dispel such foolish thoughts.
He needed to focus on tactics and strategy. It was likely the Void would attack in force when it sensed Mara’s presence at the barrier. Their best plan would be to pull all the patrols in, and concentrate on delivering a powerful blow directly through one of the breaches, striking at the heart of the Void with as much power as they could muster.
It was not enough to defend. They must attack with the intent to wound as deeply as possible and drive the Void away from Elfhame, forever.
Bran. It was a whisper on the wind, carrying the glow of Hestil’s magic. Urgent. Contact now.
He turned back toward the palace and lengthened his stride, gaining the privacy of his rooms less than a minute later. Quickly, he assembled his scrying tools and summoned the magic to reach his second-in-command.
The surface of the water in the silver bowl shivered, then revealed Hestil’s face.
“Bran—thank the moons.” Her voice carried a raw edge. “The Void creatures have broken through and we can’t hold any longer.”
“Then you must pull back,” he said, his blood running cold at the news. “Try to limit the casualties.”
“That’s not the worst of it.” Hestil’s weary expression deepened. “Word has come from the Nightshade Court. They’re under attack. I advised them to evacuate to Hawthorne.”
Muck and mire. Things were coming to a head—and he and Mara still weren’t married.
“Pull back to the palace,” he said. “I’ll alert the remaining guard, and contact the Nightshade Lady. Everyone must seek refuge here.”
“She won’t want to abandon her court.”
“Stones can be rebuilt, but lost lives are gone forever.”
Through the scrying bowl he heard screams and the clash of battle, and Hestil shot an anxious look over her shoulder.
“Retreat, before it’s too late,” Bran said, his stomach tightening. He should be there, helping hold back the Void. But he could not be in two places at once.
“Yes, commander. We will come, as quickly as we may.”
It would be a grueling journey back to the Hawthorne Palace with the Void creatures on their heels. He prayed they would not sustain too many casualties.
“I’ll ride out to meet you with whomever I can muster,” he said, mentally calculating.
Garon would come, and he reckoned perhaps a half-dozen other fighters. If they left within a half-turn, they would be able to provide reinforcements before the remaining fighters were cut down by the Void.
“Have you wed your mortal girl yet?” Hestil asked. She must have read the answer in his eyes, for she gave him a sharp look. “Do it. Now.”
She was right. They had not a moment to waste, not with the Dark Elf warriors in full retreat and the Void creatures already attacking Nightshade.
“I will. Now clear the camp, quickly.”
Hestil nodded, her image already fading in the scrying bowl.
When the water was completely clear again, Bran scrubbed his hands over his face. They were out of time, and it took an effort of will to keep despair from settling on his shoulders. All his life he’d trusted to the prophecy.
He must believe it would not fail him now.
Bending over his scrying bowl again, he contacted the ruler of Nightshade. Despite her reluctance, he extracted a promise from her to completely evacuate her court as soon as possible. The other courts were farther from the coming war—too far to send help or band together if Hawthorne fell. The fate of Elfhame truly was on his shouders.
That task done, he sent a message to Garon to muster whatever soldiers were left in the palace. Mara must be told of the change in plans, and his parents informed as well—a duty best done in person.
Anneth’s rooms were closer than the lord and lady’s suite. He knocked, then used a tendril of power to trip the lock.
“Bran—you’re too early,” Anneth said, coming to stand in the arched doorway of her bedroom.
“I am far too late,” he said. “Where’s Mara?”
“Dressing.” Anneth glanced back into her bedroom.
A moment later his mortal came and peeked out the doorway. She was wearing an underdress, and her hair was in disarray. He did not mind marrying her in such a state, but no doubt she would. And the court would be appalled.
“Dire news from the front,” he said. “The Void has breached the barrier, and our warriors are in full retreat. Nightshade is under attack, and evacuating here. The creatures cannot be far behind.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, no.” Anneth’s eyes dilated in fear.
Mara looked pale, but she met Bran’s gaze. “That changes things. I suppose we must marry right away.”
He nodded, trying to ignore her flinch when she spoke the word marry. At least she’d grasped the situation immediately.
“I wanted to give you a little time to prepare,” he said. “I must go inform the Hawthorne Lord and Lady, and do what I can to see that everything is ready for the ceremony.”
“How much time?” Anneth asked.
“A half-turn, if we can manage it.”
“Impossible,” she said.
“I don’t care if my hair’s perfectly coiffed,” Mara said. “Just put me in that silver gown, and we’ll manage.”
Bran shot her a grateful glance. It seemed that, once committed to a course of action, his mortal woman would not waver.
“Do you have the companion rings?” Anneth asked him.
“The jeweler will provide something adequate,” Bran said, mentally adding a quick visit to the woman to his list of critical items.
“Go finish the arrangements,” Mara said. “We’ll be ready in time.”
Anneth did not look convinced, but Bran paid no heed to her sound of protest.
“I trust you,” he said to Mara, then turned on his heel and strode back into the hallway.
It was true—he had every confidence that in a half-turn, Mara would arrive in the throne room, ready to marry him. Despite her clear distaste for doing so.
Of course, it was all so that she could go home. No doubt she welcomed the escalated timetable, since it meant her return to the mortal world was that much closer.
Although first, they had the little matter of saving Elfhame.
Everything had shifted, but the prophecy must prove true. In a very short time, the moment he’d been waiting for since birth would arrive.
Unfortunately, it featured a reluctant bride, a promise he was not at all sure he could fulfill, and the threat of imminent attack and annihilation by the Void.
When he’d envisioned his wedding, the few times he’d even thought of it at all, he’d assumed it would be a joyful event, as such things usually were.
But fate was ever playing cruel jokes. As long as Elfhame was saved, nothing else mattered. He’d learned long since to set aside his own happiness for the greater good. Clearly his future would be no exception.
18
“We must go,” Mara said, moving away from the mirror while Anneth still fussed over her hair. “I won’t be late to my own wedding.”
If she had to go through with this terrible event, she was resolved to do it with as much poise as possible.
“Let me just put a few more flowers in,” Anneth said.
“I look well enough.” The irony was not lost upon her that she’d considered those words an insult mere hours earlier. But everything had changed.
It was fortunate that Dark Elf gowns were not tailor-made, but constructed more loosely. Anneth had done wonders with folding and tucking until the gauzy silver dress fit Mara comfortably, though the skirts were still too long. She picked them up and went into the sitting room to fetch her knife.
Anneth followed, managing to jam one last spray of the sweet-scented white flowers into Mara’s ornately braided hair.
“You look amazing,” Anneth said. “I’ve never worked so quickly in my life.”
“And I thank you for it.” In another time and place, Mara suspected they might have become friends. “You’ve been very kind to me.”
“Of course.” Anneth gave her a look of mild surprise. “You’re the woman—”
“Of the prophecy. Yes, I know. But you were under no obligation to take such care of me.”
“Bran likes you,” Anneth said, which made Mara blink in doubtful surprise. “And I like you as well. Now, do you remember everything I told you about the ceremony?”
“Let’s review it while we walk,” Mara said, opening the door.
The air in the hallway seemed to vibrate with urgency, and for once the corridor was well lit. A noble couple hurried past, pausing to bow and curtsey before going on their way. As they made their way to the throne room, Anneth reviewed Mara’s role as bride in a low voice, and she attempted to keep it all fixed in her mind.
Normally, according to Anneth, the ceremony began with a procession and attendants waiting upon both the bride and groom, then moved to speeches from the heads of the families, and then a selection of recitations.
In this case, however, the wedding would be stripped down to its essentials. There would be no preliminaries: no procession, no speeches, no poems. She and Bran would stand together in front of the dais. With the Hawthorne rulers and the court bearing witness, they would exchange vows, give one another gifts, do something slightly unclear with a pair of rings, and speak the Rune of Binding together to finish the ceremony.
Mara mouthed the strange syllables silently to herself, desperately trying to imprint them on her tongue. Though Anneth had been encouraging, Mara knew she hadn’t yet been able to pronounce the Rune correctly.
As they approached the court, she caught the scent of competing perfumes: musk and roses, cinnamon and burnt wine. The silver doors stood open, and a hubbub of urgent conversation poured out. The robed doorman bowed to them, then moved to stand just inside the doorway. He raised his hand, and a chime rang through the air. Into the pause that followed, he spoke.
“Lady Anneth Ithilden Luthinor. And the Hawthorne Bride, Lady Mara Geary.”
Every bone-pale face turned to Mara as she stepped over the threshold. Slitted eyes and sheathed claws, sharp-edged features and hair ranging from midnight to moonlight; all the nobles of the Hawthorne Court were there, arrayed in their finery. Watching her.
Fear leaped upon her like an attacking beast, but she stood her ground. It was not the first time today she had walked this path. Although instead of having Bran at her back, he waited at the front of the court, before the dais where his parents sat.
She raised her chin and fixed her eyes on him. He wore a tunic of deep indigo with tiny white gems winking from the cuffs and neckline, and his expression was forbidding, as usual.
He turned to face her, and something flashed in his violet eyes. When his gaze dropped to her kitchen knife, stuck through the pearl-stitched belt of her gown, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up.
A pang of regret went through her as she made her way past the waiting nobles. Just as she and Anneth might have been friends under different circumstances, so, too, might she and Bran have forged something more than a friendship. Given trust, and time.
But the shadow of war swept across Elfhame, and they did not have that luxury. Instead, duty and honor must carry the day.
When she reached Bran, she made him a curtsey, then turned and paid her respects to his parents. The Hawthorne Lord nodded his approval, but his Lady only gave her a narrow-eyed look from her hard violet eyes.
So be it. Mara would not dwell long enough among the Dark Elves for the Hawthorne Lady’s opinion of her to matter overmuch.
“Members of the Hawthorne Court.” Bran’s father stood, his voice carrying through the room. “Every generation, a prophecy is pronounced over each heir to the ruling courts. Sometimes, fate treads lightly, or leave messages that cannot be clearly interpreted.”
There were a few quiet snorts of laughter at this, and Mara guessed that in many instances, the prophecies were completely obscure or could be ignored altogether.
“In the case of our son, Prince Brannonlon Luthinor, his prophecy has guided him his entire life,” the Hawthorne Lord continued. “And we are here to witness the fulfillment of his fate, as it was spoken.”
He drew in a breath, and then intoned in a deep, singsong voice,
“Evil lurks and soon will fall,
A door long closed must open wide,
Elfhame’s greatest need will call,
A mortal woman as the bride
The Hawthorne Prince mu
st surely wed,
Else all our kind shall perish, dead.”
A hush fell over the court, and Mara swallowed, taking in the meaning of the words. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Bran, growing up with such a shadow over him, aware since childhood that the fate of his people was in his hands. And she had to admit the prophecy was very clear as to her role.
She shot him a glance, to find that he was watching her, his expression impassive. She narrowed her eyes slightly. If he’d told her everything from the first, instead of lying to her…
He dipped his head in the barest acknowledgement, but his brow rose in a question.
What would have happened, had he told her the truth? Would she have smiled sweetly and said, Oh yes, of course I will marry you, you terrifying, hideous creature, since I have nothing better to do, and the fate of your world depends upon it? Or would she have run screaming into the forest, desperate to find her way back home?
For a moment, Mara dropped her gaze to the patterned tile floor beneath her feet. Today, her boots had been enchanted to glitter with silver and pearls, but it was only an illusion.
And this was only a short-term marriage. Bran’s prophecy was going to be fulfilled. First, the wedding, and then they’d somehow defeat the Void. And then he would reopen the doorway and she would go home, her terrible adventure over at last.
Holding that thought close, she lifted her head. Just a little while longer.
“Are you ready, Prince Brannonilon?” Bran’s father asked.
“I am,” Bran answered. Obviously, he’d been ready his whole life.
The Hawthorne Lord gave her an intent look. “Are you, Mara Geary?”
“Yes,” Mara said, her throat tight. She cleared it and tried again, the word coming out more strongly the second time. “Yes, I am.”
What other choice did she have?
“Then let the ceremony begin.” The Hawthorne Lord seated himself on his throne one again, and the crowd murmured and shuffled, everyone trying for a better view of the bride and groom.
Bran turned to face her, and held his hands out, palms up.
