by Anthea Sharp
Mara placed her hands over his, and he clasped her wrists. She could feel the prick of his claws against the delicate skin where her pulse ran.
“You clasp hands, like so,” Anneth had demonstrated when she was explaining the ceremony. “And then extend your claws. Um. Well, dig your fingernails in, I suppose. It’s to represent that you trust one another enough not to rip each other’s throats out.”
Mara pressed the tips of her fingers down, all too aware that her poor mortal fingernails were no weapon at all. The only way she could rip Bran’s throat out was if she attacked him with her blade in the middle of the night, and even then she suspected his warrior’s instincts would have him awake and her disarmed in a heartbeat.
Not that she would ever put it to the test. Nor did she want to. Despite his looks, Bran was not a terrible monster, and she did not wish him dead. Simply for him to be in his world, and her to be in hers.
“Mara Geary,” he said, his violet eyes staring deep into her own, “I pledge my future to you, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. I shall stand at your side, my blade yours to call upon, my magic at your command, until time and fate sunders our bond.”
She could hear the sincerity resonating through his voice, and it made her feel unworthy. For her, this ceremony was a means to an end, but Bran was a man of unflinching honor. If he spoke the words, he meant them.
What if I stay? The thought whispered through her mind.
Then she considered all the ways she did not fit—could never fit—in the Dark Elves’ world. There was only one path for her, and it led back to the mortal world.
Bran squeezed her hands lightly, a signal for her to say her part.
“Brannonilon Luthinor,” she said, and oh, she’d practiced those syllables nearly as much as the Rune of Binding. Thank heavens her tongue did not trip over his name. “I pledge myself to you, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. I shall stand at your side as we face the threat to your people, offering everything I can to help fulfill the prophecy, until our time together is at an end.”
There was a restless murmur at how she’d changed the wording of the ceremony, but she had her own sense of honor to uphold. She could not, in good conscience, pledge to be Bran’s companion for the rest of her life. All she could do was speak aloud the promise she’d made to him, and hope it would be enough.
His mouth tightened at her words, and she sensed the weight of the future settling heavily on his shoulders. He would have no one to share it with, once she was gone, for she knew deep in her heart that he would never seek out another to love.
The knowledge almost made her yank her hands away and implore him to find someone else to marry. Someone who could love him as he deserved, someone to share the rest of his life with.
But there was no one else. She was the woman of the prophecy, and she must see this through to the end. She wrapped her hands more firmly about his wrists. He gave her the slightest nod, then let go.
“As a token of my affection, I give you this bride-gift.” He reached into his tunic and drew out an ornately twisted necklace glowing with starry gems, silver, and pearls.
It was the most stunning piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, fit for a queen, and she sucked in her breath as he held it up. From her place on the dais, Bran’s mother made an annoyed sound, but he ignored her, and Mara did the same.
“Allow me?” he said softly.
Mara bent her head and let him fasten the necklace about her neck. It lay, rich and heavy, against her skin.
Her throat dry, she looked back up at him.
“And as a token of my respect, I give you this groom-gift,” she said, unfastening her trusty kitchen knife from her belt.
She handed it to him, the only apology she could make for everything that was and could never be between them. This time the murmurs of the crowd were approving.
The look on Bran’s face softened. He carefully took the knife, as if were made of the most precious metal, and slid it through his own belt.
“I thank you,” he said.
She stood there awkwardly for a moment, trying to recall what came next. Then Bran reached into his pocket once more and drew out two rings, one small and one large. They were connected at one edge, two side-by-side circles.
“Just as the pale moon and the bright join together in the sky, so shall our lives join,” he said.
He held up his right hand toward her, and belatedly, Mara mirrored the movement. When their palms touched, a flash of sensation moved through her, as though she’d passed her hand over a candle flame. Bran’s eyes widened slightly, and she guessed he’d felt it, too.
Skin pressed to skin, he raised his other hand and slid the linked rings onto their middle fingers. For a moment, she felt trapped, and had to crush the urge to jerk her hand away. She could not have moved, at any rate—the rings were tightly bonded, holding them fast.
Bran angled his hand, bending his fingers down to interlace with hers, and she did the same. They stood there, palm to palm, the rings tying them together.
“Ready?” he asked in a low voice.
Time to speak the Rune of Binding. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat and recall the guttural syllables. This was the last step of the wedding. What if she could not say it correctly? Would the entire ceremony be a failure?
Her heart pounding, she nodded to Bran. She must do her best.
“When I squeeze your hand, we will say the Rune together,” he said. “Do not fear.”
Her gaze fixed on his, she made no reply, only waited. There was nothing but trust in his eyes.
He pressed her hand, and she opened her mouth, speaking the awkward syllables.
“Gwedhyocuilvorn!”
Their voices mingled, his strong tones overriding her slight mispronunciation. A searing light sprang from their clasped hands, and the air vibrated as though they stood within a giant bell that had just been struck. Mara squinted against the glare. Her hand felt as though it was on fire.
Then her skin prickled all over, and that strange feeling opened up inside her again: a rush of power filling her from her toes to the crown of her head. It spilled out, and bright azure flames leaped from her hand where it touched Bran’s.
His nostrils flared and he leaned forward.
“You must contain your power,” he said, his voice tight. “Pull it back in. I’m shielding the court, but I can’t continue for long.”
Mara dug her heels into the stone floor and concentrated on subduing the wild fire burning inside her. Breathe. Calm. Slowly, she felt the heat subside.
After what seemed like hours, but was probably only seconds, the blue flame winked out, and her power curled in and down, settling back to whatever shadowy place it inhabited. She swayed, and Bran caught her, pulling her in to lean against his broad chest.
Their hands were still linked. His heart beat strong under her cheek.
She drew in a shaky breath and slowly uncurled her fingers. He did the same.
To her great relief, their hands were no longer attached. She pulled hers away and glanced at the ring encircling her middle finger. Where it had been plain silver before, it now glowed a deep violet-blue. Bran’s was the same, and she didn’t know if they were supposed to look that way, or if the ceremony had indeed gone awry.
“That was unexpected,” Bran said, quietly enough that only she could hear. His breath was warm against her forehead “Are you unharmed?”
“I think so.”
“Then you must stand beside me. Take my hand, like so. Now raise your ring so that all may see.”
Mara obeyed, though she felt a bit shaky on her feet. Bran shifted toward her, bracing her unobtrusively against him.
Her vision was still blurred by the flash of power, but she could see shock and wonder on the faces of the assembled Dark Elves. She was pleased to note the nasty Mireleth had lost her usual petulant expression, and Anneth was openly beaming.
“We h
ave witnessed history in the making,” the Hawthorne Lord said from the dais. Even he sounded a trifle stunned. “The union between Prince Brannonilon Luthinor and the mortal woman, Lady Mara Geary, is complete. Let us rejoice.”
Anneth led the cheering, which was thin at first, then grew in volume until the entire court was calling out their approval.
Cutting above the noise, Mara became aware of a shrill, high keening. She glanced over at Bran, who looked exceedingly grim.
“To arms!” he cried, and the cheering abruptly cut off. “The Hawthorne Palace is under attack!”
19
The palace alarm wailed, then finally ceased as the members of the Hawthorne Court scrambled for the doors. Bran set his hand on Mara’s shoulder. His ring flared with blue light, reminding him that this woman was, now and always, his wife. Regret curled through him like smoke that they would never have a true partnership, or a future together.
For all her strangeness, and despite everything, he feared that he had learned to love his mortal woman. Not that he would ever speak such a thing to her. She would be disgusted, and presume he was only trying to hold her to Elfhame.
“What do we do?” she asked, turning to him. “Are Void creatures attacking?”
“Not quite yet,” he said. “The alarm is set to ring when enemies cross the palace boundary. We have a half-turn to prepare for battle before they are upon us.”
“I’m fighting, too,” Mara said, as if daring him to contradict her.
“Of course. We need you.” I need you.
Anneth hurried up, and gave Mara a stern look.
“You’re not going to war in that.” She gestured to Mara’s silver gown.
“Then let’s get back to your rooms and find me something suitable,” his wife—his wife!—said.
Bran squeezed her shoulder and let go, though a part of him wanted to hold on to her and keep her safe, forever.
“I’ll be in the courtyard just inside the main gate,” he said. “Everyone willing to fight will muster there. Find me as soon as you’re ready.”
He did not bother telling her to hurry. It was clear that they had not a moment to waste.
She turned to go, and he caught her arm again.
“Take this.” He drew his dagger from his belt and handed it to her, hilt first. “I don’t want you to be unarmed.”
“Not giving back your groom-gift?” She gave him a crooked smile.
“Never. Now go.”
She and Anneth rushed off, and Bran turned to where Garon and few members of the nobility waited beside the dais. To his surprise, his father stood there as well, though there was no sign of Tinnueth. No doubt she was busy barricading herself in her rooms.
“Father.” He gave the Hawthorne Lord a nod of respect. The man had been a skilled swordsman in his day, and good enough with offensive magic. “Do you join us?”
“Of course,” Lord Calithilon said.
“Good.” Bran turned to Garon. “How many fighters?”
“Ten—plus yourself and Lady Mara and the Lord, makes thirteen. A few defenders will stay behind, too. Cerreth and her brother will take to the towers with fiery arrows.”
Bran surveyed the brave, grim faces staring back at him. “Put on your armor, fetch your weapons, and meet me by the gates as soon as possible.”
They nodded and dispersed, leaving Bran alone with his father.
“Well done,” Lord Calithilon said. “I am proud to call you my son.”
“The battle’s not yet won.”
“But the prophecy is fulfilled, and I was wrong to ever doubt it. I am certain we’ll win. Afterward, I’ll ensure that your mother never meddles with the mortal girl.”
Bran gave him a short nod. This was no time to explain that Mara would be departing Elfhame. When she learned of it, no doubt Tinnueth would be delighted. As would Mireleth. The knowledge left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Off to prepare,” Lord Calithilon said, a note of anticipation in his voice. He stepped onto the dais and headed for his private door.
For the first time, Bran wondered if perhaps his father was bored. He should have invited the Hawthorne Lord to come to the front, perhaps take part in a few skirmishes.
Well, there would be excitement enough in the coming turn. And, he feared, the worst parts of war as well: wounded warriors, pain, death.
With those gloomy thoughts for company, he strode back to his rooms to don his leather armor and fetch his sword.
Garon and two others were waiting when he entered the courtyard, and soon enough the rest of the fighters joined them. Lord Calithilon’s eyes glowed, and Bran could feel his father gathering his magic in preparation.
Mara was the last to arrive, wearing a heavy tunic, leggings, and her mortal boots, which still shimmered slightly with Anneth’s glamour. If his wife had chosen to stay in Elfhame, he would have commanded a set of the finest armor to be made for her.
Instead, he would be her shield and her sword.
“Something’s coming,” one of the fighters said, pointing at the pale road winding away from the palace gates.
The hiss of swords leaving scabbards filled the air, but Bran held up his hand. “Wait. Those are no Void creatures.”
He sent a ball of glowing foxfire forward. Its blue light illuminated a line of Dark Elves straggling down the road. At the front strode the Nightshade Lady, her expression grim.
“We’re here,” she called back to her people. “Hurry—the Hawthorne Palace awaits.”
Bran and the other fighters stood aside as the people of Nightshade came through the gates.
“Welcome.” Lord Calithilon raised his hand in greeting. “Enter, friends, and seek food and shelter within. Our hospitality is yours as long as you need it.”
“My thanks, Hawthorne,” the Nightshade Lady said, stopping beside Bran’s father.
“You would do the same,” he said. “How many?”
“Not enough.” Her voice was hollow with weariness. “Our best fighters fell in the first attack. I fear Nightshade is lost to us.”
“Not for long,” Bran said.
Whatever happened, the war with the Void would be over soon. And if the Dark Elves were defeated, then the fate of the courts of Elfhame mattered not at all.
He watched as the stream of refugees trickled in. Nightshade was a small court, smaller than their own, and after a dismayingly short time the road was empty again.
“The creatures are not far behind,” the Nightshade Lady said. “I would stay with you and fight, but I fear my magic is spent.”
“Recover as you can,” Lord Calithilon said. “You traveled fast, to reach us this soon.”
“The Rune of Quickness has its uses.”
Bran shot her a look of respect. No wonder her powers were exhausted. To cast the Rune on one person was challenge enough. The Nightshade Lady had done so for all her court, and several times over, if he was any judge.
A faint sound reached Bran, and he stiffened.
“The Void creatures come,” he said. “Spread out in front of the gates. Mara, stay close by me.”
He’d wanted to ride out and engage the enemy further from the palace, but it was too late. The creatures that had attacked Nightshade were closer than the ones Hestil was retreating from, and he prayed his small band would be able to dispatch them before the fighters from the front arrived.
Between one breath and the next, the enemy was upon them. Red-eyed gyrewolves leaped and snapped, and one spiderkin jumped over them all and headed for the palace.
Bran shouted a warning, and saw his father blast the creature with a bolt of power before drawing his sword. Then all his attention turned to fighting the wolves swarming toward him and Mara.
As he’d guessed, somehow the Void sensed her presence. The battle soon became not a defense of the palace gates, but a circle of fighting around him and his bride.
A wolf came too close while he pushed back a spiderkin. Mara cried out and slashed at it with the da
gger he’d given her. It growled and prepared to leap, then was taken down by a swing of Garon’s blade.
Bran’s heart pumped furiously. That had been far too close. He raised one hand, summoning his power, and let out a blast. It knocked back the current attackers, but by its light Bran could see more approaching, including two of the lumbering creatures. These ones were twice the size of the lumberer he and Lieth had dispatched, and he could not help a twinge of dismay at the sight.
“Now what?” Mara asked. One of her braids had come loose, and her mud-colored hair straggled across her face.
He gently tucked the strand behind her ear.
“We hold fast,” he said. “This is a skirmish. I fear the real battle is yet to come.”
“Something’s happening yonder,” Garon said, lifting his blade and staring toward the rise above the palace.
Bran looked, and saw the telltale glow of magic flickering against the starlit sky.
“It must be Hestil.” He raised his voice in command. “Fighters, move position to the ridge!”
He sent another blast of power to keep the Void creatures at bay and give their small band enough time to scramble for the rise. He caught Mara’s hand. Despite Garon’s lame leg, the old soldier kept pace on her other side. It seemed he’d appointed himself her bodyguard, and Bran was glad of it. As they vacated the area before the gates, arrows hissed from the towers toward their enemies, burning green and orange with magical flame.
They crested the ridge to see scores of Dark Elf warriors holding back a wave of gyrewolves and spiderkin. Lieth’s bolts of magic flew true, and the glows of lesser magic users bloomed and faded over the trampled silvergrass. Bran scanned the fighters, finding Hestil in the process of dispatching a gyrewolf.
A spiderkin leaped to attack her. With a shout, he raised his hand and blasted it down. Hestil whirled and impaled the creature, dodging the green ichor spurting from its side.
“Bran,” she called. “Thank the seven bright stars.”
He’d opened his mouth to reply, when, with a deafening crack, the air above them split open.
Bran pulled Mara to his side and stared up. This was no mere breach. No—this was a portal torn into the very fabric of their world, pulsing with the malevolent energy of the Void. Somehow, it had managed to bypass the barrier and push itself into the heart of Elfhame.
