Elfhame: A Dark Elf Fairy Tale

by Sharp, Anthea

  Swallowing the last of her tea, and with no answers, she rose and helped her mother clear the table.

  “Look.” Mara’s mother prodded her in the ribs. “Thom is over there, by the potato seller. Go and say hello.”

  Mara glanced up from the tray of silver jewelry she’d been admiring. The necklaces were beautiful, like spun moonlight—and far above what they could afford. When her mother asked, she’d say she’d been looking at the braided copper rings instead.

  “Oh look, he’s seen us.” Mara’s mother waved and called a greeting.

  Thom saw them and, smiling widely, started to make his way to where they stood.

  Too late to escape. Mara dredged up a pleasant smile. It was always difficult, trying to be kind to Thom without giving him undue encouragement.

  “Mara!” Thom fetched up before her, his brown eyes shining. He took off his cap and made her a clumsy bow. “You’re back from the castle.”

  “She missed you too much to stay,” Mara’s mother said.

  “Mother!” Mara glared at her mother, then turned to Thom. “She’s teasing, of course. They found they’d hired too many maids, and I was let go.”

  “That’s a pity,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m sad about it, since now you’re home where you belong.”

  More than ever, Mara felt as though she did not belong—but it was hardly the time or place to try and explain.

  “It’s Mara’s birthday,” her mother said. “Seventeen—such a good age to think about starting a family of her own.”

  “I disagree,” Mara said, but the damage was already done.

  Thom gazed at her, the adoration shining in his eyes making her quite uncomfortable. For the first time that day, she regretted wearing her prettiest gown. While she’d always thought Thom a nice enough boy, if she thought of him at all, she’d never returned the force of emotion he so clearly directed at her every time they met.

  “May I come and call upon you soon?” Thom asked, crumpling his cap between his hands.

  His intent was plain: he meant to begin courting her in earnest.

  “I really don’t—”

  “Mara will be delighted to see you,” her mother said. “Come visit us tomorrow after supper, if you’re free.”

  “I am. Yes. That would be marvelous.” Thom grabbed Mara’s hand and planted a moist kiss upon it. “I can hardly wait. Thank you, Mrs. Geary.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow then, Thom,” Mara’s mother said. “Have a good afternoon.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Thom jammed his cap back on his head and walked away, glancing back at Mara every few steps.

  “He’s like a puppy.” Mara wiped the back of her hand on her cloak. “Mother, did you have to be so encouraging?”

  “Well, you weren’t.” Her mother shifted her market basket. “Come, we don’t want to be late to Mrs. Weir’s stall, or we’ll miss the best fish.”

  “I don’t want to marry Thom.” She hurried after her mother. “I wish you’d understand that.”

  “Puppies grow up in time,” her mother said. “And you need to do something with your life, since the castle didn’t work out.”

  “I thought I’d travel.”

  “Alone? The world is full of troubles waiting to beset an innocent young woman. Besides, you haven’t any money.”

  Mara felt she’d be able to handle most difficulties that might arise on her travels, but her mother’s last words were depressingly true.

  “Not much,” she said.

  “Perhaps you can convince Thom to spend a little time seeing the country, once you’re married.”

  “He doesn’t seem the adventurous sort,” Mara said.

  “Then he’ll settle you down nicely.” They halted in front of the fishmonger’s. “What do you think of that fat trout there, on the end?”

  Clearly their discussion about Mara’s future was at an end. She swallowed back her words of protest and privately vowed that, no matter what happened, she would never settle for a life in Little Hazel, married to Thom the woodcutter’s son.

  6

  The only redeeming feature of the Hawthorne Court’s formal dinner was that Bran was seated beside his sister. Although it was rude, he ignored the woman on his left and spent the meal conversing with Anneth.

  During the soup course, she made him smile with tales of her escapades in the court, including raiding the library and making off with as many lurid tales of mortals as she could carry.

  “One of us needs to know what you’ll be getting into when your human woman finally appears,” Anneth said, giving him a teasing look. “Did you know that mortals prefer strong light—even stronger than our brightmoon—and like to eat snails?”

  “That sounds most unappetizing.”

  “What, the light or the slugs?”

  “Both.” But the prophecy demanded he bear with honor whatever challenges a mortal wife would bring.

  “What is afoot with our parents?” Anneth glanced to the head of the table, where the Hawthorne Lord and Lady presided over the feast. “Mother looks as though she’s swallowed something surprisingly pleasant, and Father is absolutely gloating.”

  Bran leaned back to let the servant take his bowl, and did not speak until the man had moved away down the table.

  “They have a scheme that they hope will force the prophecy to manifest.”

  Anneth frowned. “I was afraid of that, from the tidbits Father let drop. But is it even possible to make a prophecy happen? Can you tell me more?”

  Bran paused again as the fowl course was served, and took the opportunity to take a deep draught of elderberry wine. His father was correct: it was one of the finest vintages yet.

  Anneth took a bite of pheasant, patiently waiting until Bran was ready to speak. It was one of the reasons he was so fond of her. She never pressed, never scolded, but simply accepted him as he was.

  Which was more than their parents had ever done.

  Bran made himself eat, though he’d lost his appetite. He needed all his strength for his return to the front, and it would be foolish to refuse the food set before him.

  As soon as conversations rose about them, he leaned toward Anneth.

  “They think that making a formal announcement of my betrothal will activate the prophecy,” he said.

  She stared at him a moment, her dark eyes flaring with sympathy. “So they do want you to marry someone. That’s absurd. You didn’t tell them yes, did you?”

  “I did.”

  Her expression turned to dismay. “Bran, no. Was that wise? What if the prophecy abandons us altogether? I’m sure such things don’t like to be dictated to.”

  “Something has to happen.” He could not entirely suppress the note of urgency in his voice. “The battles are getting desperate.”

  He took another swallow of wine. By all the stars, he should be there now, not enduring a formal banquet while his parents gloated over forcing his hand. His mother, in particular, had always hinted that she did not quite believe in the foretelling that had accompanied his birth.

  Anneth laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I trust we’ll prevail. Surely the fates would not desert us altogether.”

  “I wish I shared that trust.” He took another bite of tasteless meat, made himself chew and swallow.

  “But who is the lucky—”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Anneth.” The syrupy-sweet voice came from just behind him. “I need to borrow your brother for a moment.”

  Bran turned in his chair to see Mireleth standing there, a predatory look in her eyes. Anneth’s gaze met his, and her eyes widened. She knew how he felt about Mireleth, and he read horrified sympathy in her expression.

  “Lady Mireleth.” He set his napkin aside and rose smoothly. “It would be my pleasure to attend upon you.”

  “Good.” She twined her arm through his, and he felt the delicate prick of her claws through his shirt.

  As soon as they stepped out of the dining hall, she turned to him. He
r pale cheeks were flushed with emotion, and her eyes glowed dangerously.

  “Do you think so little of me,” she said in a tight voice, “that you force me to seek you out in the middle of dinner?”

  “My most sincere apologies,” he said. “I was busy in strategic meetings until the dinner bell rang. I had every intention of finding you after the feast, to discuss matters between us.”

  “Discuss matters?” The words came out in a hiss. “You have a duty to me now, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. Our fathers signed the agreement.”

  Cold twisted in Bran’s chest. “You are aware that we won’t actually be married.”

  “Oh, Bran.” She ran one hand possessively up and down his shoulder. “Who’s to say what might happen? Now, I’ve brought the vow bracelets. You must say the words.”

  Bran closed his eyes briefly. Of course, he should have guessed that Mireleth and her politically grasping father would take every advantage to seal the betrothal as tightly as they could. He’d hoped it would be a mere formality—a tactical error on his part.

  Now he had no choice but to ask Mireleth to become his fiancée, and even wear the cursed bracelet. But no way under the moons would he allow the full betrothal bond to be forged. Luckily, even Mireleth would not overstep protocol by dragging him away from the rest of the feast to put her permanent claim upon him.

  “Here.” She handed him the smaller of the silver-runed bracelets.

  “Lady Mireleth Anion,” he said, reluctantly taking it in his palm, “will you pledge your future to mine, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm?”

  “Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne.” Her voice was exultant. “I will do so, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. Until the day we are wed, let these bracelets seal the depth of our vow.”

  She held up the bracelet meant for him, kissed it, and then slid it over his hand. He was hard-pressed not to make a fist to keep it from encircling his wrist. The veins in his hands corded, and he forced himself to breathe evenly.

  The cold metal closed over his skin, latching with a click that reverberated through him like a slammed door.

  “My turn,” she said, a hint of threat in her voice.

  Dutifully, Bran raised her bracelet to his lips, then pushed it onto her hand. It slithered over her skin like a metal snake, eagerly snapping shut the moment it reached her wrist.

  The bracelets flared in tandem, and Mireleth gave him a smug smile. “Now there will be no doubt when our betrothal is announced at the end of dinner.”

  “As you say.” He felt numb.

  If this betrothal did not call the woman of the prophecy, he would be shackled to Mireleth for life. Fortunately, that life would be very short as the creatures of the Void overran Elfhame and destroyed everything in their path. It was a bitter consolation.

  “I’ll come to your rooms tonight, after moonset,” she said, lifting her hand to caress his cheek. “We’ll seal the bracelet bonding then. Leave your door unlocked.”

  His heart was a stone, his mouth full of pebbles. He said nothing.

  “You could show a little more emotion,” Mireleth said, huffing out a breath. “After all, we’ve been companions already. This will only formalize things.”

  “We ought to return to dinner,” he said, catching her arm and deftly steering her back inside the dining hall.

  He could not bear another moment in her company, and he absolutely refused to bond their bracelets by welcoming her to his rooms later that night.

  He escorted Mireleth to her seat, bowed and kissed her hand, then hastily retreated to his place.

  “Oh dear,” Anneth said, once he sat down. “She’s determined to get her claws into you, isn’t she?”

  Bran glanced at the pinprick holes in the arm of his linen shirt. “I’m afraid she already has.”

  His sister grimaced. “And making you wear the vow bracelets, too. Does she really think she’s more important than the prophecy that will save our realm? Oh, don’t answer that. Cleary she does.”

  The fruit course was served, and Bran made his decision.

  “I’ll be leaving right after dinner,” he told his sister in a low voice. “I must return to the front. I’ll leave a note.”

  “She’ll be furious.” Anneth glanced down the table, to where Mireleth sat, showing off her bracelet to anyone whose attention she could catch.

  “Stay well out of her way until she calms down,” he said. “And send for me at any sign of trouble. So far we’ve been able to keep the border secure, but I fear some creature might slip through. Do you have the dagger I gave you?”

  She nodded. “I wear it at my belt, always.”

  “And are you still practicing the moves? Go to Garon at the first hint of danger—he may be old and lame, but the man still knows how to fight.”

  “Yes—he complains constantly to anyone who’ll listen that he ought to be out fighting with the rest of the warriors.”

  “He’s needed here as captain of the guard. Remind him of that next time he grumbles. And that I’ve entrusted my sister’s safety to his hands.”

  “Surely it won’t come to that?” Anneth ate a slice of moon melon, but he could hear the fear in her voice.

  Before he could reply—and really, he had nothing but empty reassurances to give her—Lord Calithilon stood from his place at the head of the table.

  “Attention,” he said, his voice enhanced with magic to fill the room. “We have a very important announcement to make.”

  The clink of cutlery and babble of conversation faded. Tinnueth rose to stand beside her husband, her expression austere and regal.

  “It gives us great joy to announce the betrothal of our son, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne, to Lady Mireleth Anion. Let us toast to their happiness!”

  A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Bran heard the questions rise: What of the prophecy? Does he love her that much? Is the Hawthorne Lord mad?

  He ignored the buzz of speculation and concentrated on not openly scowling.

  “You look very forbidding,” his sister murmured.

  “It’s the best I can do,” he replied.

  In contrast, Lady Mireleth was smiling broadly. She lifted her arm so everyone could see the betrothal bracelet.

  “I’m so delighted that Bran has asked me to marry him,” she said in a voice pitched to carry. “I’m sure you all know we’ve been madly in love for years.”

  Anneth nearly choked on her wine, and Bran tried not to wince at the outright lie. If he hadn’t already decided to leave immediately, Mireleth’s words would have sent him running.

  So much for the brave warrior, he thought cynically. He was fearless in battle, but in the face of Mireleth’s court-sanctioned grasping, he felt like an untrained youth facing his first enemy in the field.

  “Congratulations!” one well-wisher shouted, and the toast was taken up through the dining hall.

  Bran raised his goblet and wet his lips with wine, acknowledging the cheers. He needed a clear head to travel on, despite the impulse to drain his cup.

  He was gratified to note that several people sent him looks filled with commiseration, however, rather than congratulation. Not everyone believed Mireleth’s fabrications, or thought the betrothal was wise.

  The Hawthorne Lord and Lady resumed their seats, and the musicians in the gallery struck up a jaunty tune on flute and cittern. As people’s attention returned to their food, Bran considered how quickly he could depart.

  He’d make it through the last course, pen a note for Lady Mireleth saying he’d been unexpectedly called back to the battle, fetch his mount, and be well away from the Hawthorne Court before the palemoon set.

  7

  The rest of the market trip was uneventful, but despite the bright sun on her face, Mara’s mood turned gloomy. As expected, her mother had bought her the braided copper ring, and she twisted it back and forth on he
r finger as they returned home.

  “We’ll have trout and spring greens for supper,” her mother said. “And honeycakes to celebrate your birthday.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Mara tried to sound enthusiastic. “I’ll cut a bouquet for the table.”

  She helped her mother put away their supplies, then took a pair of shears and a basket and went outside again. The late afternoon sun warmed the front stoop of their cottage, and mint and wallflowers were already growing there in profusion.

  Mara cut a few stems of each, then went down the lane toward the Darkwood, adding forget-me-not and sweet rocket to her basket. Near the forest, she took a few ferns for greenery.

  Other flowers grew deeper in the shadows between the trees: delicate columbine and pale lady’s mantle. She was tempted to venture in, even though she had plenty of flowers to make a pleasing arrangement. For a long moment she stood, staring into the forest and hoping to see golden sparks of light dancing toward her.

  “Mara!” Her younger sisters waved to her from down the lane, carrying their slates and schoolbooks.

  Nothing sparked or glimmered in the Darkwood. Well then. Mara took up her basket and went to join her sisters.

  The rest of the afternoon and evening was pleasant enough, in a humdrum sort of way. All her siblings had remembered it was her birthday, and after supper they presented her with a book-shaped package.

  “We put all our pocket money in,” Pansy said. “Of course, that was when we thought you’d be away forever, working at the castle.”

  She sounded a little put out that they’d splurged for nothing, and that there would be no lavish reciprocal gifts bought with Mara’s salary as a maid.

  Seanna rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Mara will enjoy it, regardless of her surroundings. Go ahead, open it.”

  Mara carefully unwrapped the brown paper, pausing when the gilt-edged corner of the book was revealed. Had they found her another book of fabulous tales? Quickly, she pulled the rest of the paper free, and couldn’t help a little yelp of joy.

  “It’s the sequel to my storybook! Oh, thank you all so much.” She went around the sitting room, giving each of her siblings a hug and a kiss.