Elfhame: A Dark Elf Fairy Tale

by Sharp, Anthea

Mara pressed her lips together. She hadn’t grown up in a court, learning to harden herself against hurtful words—but she would do her best.

  The hallway opened into a crescent-shaped foyer dominated by tall double doors made of some glowing silvery metal. They were decorated with a design featuring the blossoms and thorny spikes of hawthorn branches. Mara hoped the gossips of the Hawthorne Court would not be as sharp as their namesake thorns.

  A Dark Elf dressed in a flowing robe stepped forward as they approached, and gestured at the doors. They swung open by themselves, and Mara swallowed back her impending panic. Bran pressed her hand, as if he understood her anxiety, but did not slow his steps. She was carried along with him as they crossed the threshold of the Hawthorne Court.

  “Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne,” the doorman announced. “Lady Anneth Ithilden Luthinor. And the mortal woman called Mara Geary.”

  Shock swept through Mara, clearing the fog of fear rising in her brain. Prince Brannonsomething? Heir to the throne?

  “You’re a prince?” she hissed at Bran. Curse him for being so closemouthed! “What else haven’t you told me?”

  He gave her a look tinged with apology. “The court is watching.”

  To perdition with the Hawthorne Court, and its lying heir. Mara pulled her arm free of Bran’s and held her head high. These Dark Elves were no better than humans, no matter how fearsome they looked, and she would not be cowed by them.

  “Good girl,” Anneth murmured from behind Mara. “Go straight forward, then stop a pace from the dais and curtsey. Ignore everyone to either side.”

  Fueled by her anger, Mara marched forward. She didn’t care if Bran kept up with her. The crowd murmured as she passed, but she paid them no mind. Her attention was fixed on the two thrones set upon the dais, occupied by the Hawthorne Lord and Lady.

  Bran’s parents.

  She could see the stern cast of Bran’s features in his father’s face. His mother assessed her coldly from eyes the same violet hue as her son’s.

  She should have wondered why he had a prophecy surrounding him. Why he was given such deference at the camp, and why his magic was so strong. She’d been a fool, imagining him to be, at best, a member of the minor nobility.

  No, she was a prisoner of the Hawthorne Prince himself. No wonder he’d been so possessive of his prize. The connection she’d felt building between them evaporated like mist under strong sunlight. Bran only wanted to use her to save his kingdom. She was nothing but a pawn on the board of Elfhame’s future, and she resented it bitterly.

  She halted in a swirl of purple skirts before the dais and made the rulers her most formal curtsey—the one she and her sisters had practiced in front of the mirror for hours, pretending they were going to visit the queen. Mara held the pose for a heartbeat to show her respect to the Hawthorne Lord and Lady. Their son might be full of deceit, but she was in their court now, and at their mercy.

  She refused to be trapped in this wretched dark land for the rest of her life, however. Someday, somehow, she would find a way to escape Elfhame and return home.

  15

  Standing just behind Mara, Bran made a formal bow to his parents. Though he kept his gaze low, he was monitoring their reactions closely. His father seemed amused, his mother taken aback, by Mara’s fearless demeanor. No doubt Tinnueth expected a meek and cowering human, not this fierce girl with a bare blade at her belt.

  By the seven bright stars, he was proud of his mortal woman for marching so boldly into the throne room. He supposed he should have told her he was the Hawthorne Heir—although the moment had never seemed right—but ultimately her anger at him had proved to be well timed.

  A buzz of whispers rose as Bran’s father welcomed Mara to Elfhame and the hospitality of the Hawthorne Court. Tinnueth looked like she’d bitten down on something sour, but she could hardly deny the prophecy any longer.

  “A hideous creature,” someone said, loudly enough for Bran to hear. The voice sounded suspiciously like Mireleth’s.

  Bran glanced down at the silver bracelet shackling his wrist. He’d seek her out immediately after court to dissolve their false betrothal.

  The flush of color on Mara’s cheeks was the only sign she’d heard the malicious words.

  “Thank you,” she said to his parents once the welcome speech ended. “I am honored.”

  This prompted another wave of murmuring when the Dark Elves realized Mara could speak their tongue, as well as understand what was said. A flash of satisfaction went through Bran, though he kept his expression impassive.

  “We will feast tonight in your honor,” Lord Calithilon said. “Until that time, feel free to tour the palace. Prince Brannon will serve as your guide. Tomorrow is a day for celebration. So that we might all make ready, I declare our court hours at an end today.”

  He raised one finger, and the sound of the dismissal gong rang through the room.

  Mara curtseyed again to the lord and lady, then took a step backward. Bran caught her elbow as she began to turn.

  “Wait,” he said. It was the height of rudeness to turn one’s back on the rulers before they stood from their thrones.

  He bowed to his parents, aware of the look of warning in his mother’s eyes. Tinnueth would pounce upon any misstep Mara might make, and they would both pay the price.

  The Hawthorne Lord and Lady rose and regally paced to their private door behind the thrones. Sometimes they stepped off the dais to mingle with their court. Bran was relieved it was not one of those days.

  Smoothly, her pulled Mara’s arm through his, then turned them back toward the tall doors of the throne room. Beside him, he felt Mara take a quick breath. None of the assembled court had departed yet. Oh no—they wanted a good look at his mortal woman.

  Anneth came up to them and took her place on Mara’s other side. Approval shone from her eyes. She would not praise Mara here, in front of the court, but Bran could tell she was pleased.

  As was he. His future bride had a core of strength that would serve them both well in the coming days.

  An awkward circle of space formed around them, with no one willing to step close enough to have to speak to Bran or Mara. Despite that, the pathway to the exit was blocked. It would be unpleasant to have to force their way forward.

  Then his old master-at-arms, Garon, strode forward, his blackthorn cane knocking on the floor with every other step. He bowed stiffly, and Bran held out his hand.

  “No need for such formality,” he said.

  “It’s not you I’m honoring.” Garon turned to face the mortal woman beside Bran. “Lady Mara, it is a pleasure to meet you. I know I speak for everyone when I say I’m glad to see the prophecy fulfilled in such a satisfactory manner.”

  He sent a fierce look toward the bystanders, and most of them had the grace to nod and murmur their agreement. All except Mireleth, who glared at Bran, and a few other members of the nobility who clearly sided with her.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mara said.

  The edge in her voice implied she didn’t think being found “satisfactory” much of a compliment.

  “Not all of us are so easily satisfied.” Mireleth stepped up beside Garon. Her claws were unsheathed, and malice glittered from her narrowed eyes.

  Bran set his hand to his dagger, and called his magic to his fingertips. If Mireleth had the gall to physically attack Mara, he would not hesitate to defend her.

  “Lady Mireleth,” he warned, “consider your actions carefully.”

  “Is this so-called Mara Geary actually a mortal?” Ignoring him, Mireleth whirled to face the crowd. “How do we know this is truly the woman of the prophecy, and not some trick meant to deprive me of my betrothed?”

  Her few supporters voiced their approval, and Bran could see questions arise in the eyes of some of the nobles. He clenched his jaw. Trust Mireleth to stir up trouble.

  “Your accusations are ridiculous,” he said. “Be careful whom you call a trickster.”

&
nbsp; Mireleth stared angrily a moment, then raised her voice. “Members of the court, consider this. How is it that this mortal newly come to Elfhame is fluent in our language? And would a real human be able to stand before the Hawthorne Lord and Lady without quivering in fear? I think not.”

  Garon tapped his cane on the floor. “Now see here—”

  “Everyone knows Prince Brannon is the strongest magic user in the land,” Mireleth continued. “He’s quite capable of casting a glamour none could see through.” She pointed at Mara. “How do we know this isn’t simply some Dark Elf girl in disguise?”

  Before Bran could speak in her defense, Mara set her hands on her hips and took a step forward.

  “Truly?” she said. “You’re upset because now Bran won’t marry you? I can understand why.”

  This drew a few laughs, quickly suppressed.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Mara continued, “you can have him. The two of you deserve one another.”

  Bran knew he must speak, but somehow his tongue was frozen inside his mouth.

  “And what of the prophecy?” Garon asked.

  “Who would willingly put herself through all this?” Mara waved at the assembled courtiers. “Who would come here to be looked down upon by your lord and lady, insulted and sneered at, forced to obey some prophecy she’s never even heard of? I’d happily leave you all to your fate, if there was any way for me to return home.”

  Her words rang with unmistakable truth, and Bran could see the effect they had on the crowd. No Dark Elf would ever speak so. And although he was dismayed at Mara’s words, he was equally pleased to see Mireleth withdraw her claws and slink back into the crowd.

  “Well said.” Anneth linked her arm through Mara’s. “Excuse us.”

  She strode forward, not waiting for the assembled nobles to clear a path. Those courtiers between her and the door scrambled to get out of the way.

  Bran almost followed. He would like nothing better than to remove himself from the room. But first, he must sever his betrothal to Mireleth.

  She had sequestered herself in a circle of her supporters. When they saw him approaching, however, they parted like water.

  “Lady Andion,” he said formally, paying no mind to the poisonous look she turned on him, “speaking of trickery, you were well aware that our so-called betrothal was a ploy to activate the prophecy. I am pleased that it succeeded, and am here to officially break our bond.”

  Her nostrils flared, but she could not deny the truth.

  “Then I repudiate our vows,” she said bitterly. “By fire and storm, pale moon and bright, star and shadow, I want no part of you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor.”

  She shook her arm, and her silver betrothal bracelet opened and fell to the floor with a clang.

  Bran caught his as it slithered off his wrist, then held it awkwardly, for once at a loss. He would not offer Mireleth an empty apology.

  “I wish you well with your horrid little creature,” Mireleth said.

  She tossed back her hair and stalked away, kicking the bracelet aside as she went. Her allies scurried after her.

  “I’ll take charge of the bracelets,” Garon said, limping up to Bran. “Nasty business.”

  Bran didn’t know if he meant Mireleth, the bracelets, or the entire sham betrothal. Likely all three. He held his discarded bracelet out.

  “My thanks,” he said.

  “You’d best go clear up matters with Lady Mara,” the old soldier said.

  “Indeed.” He clapped Garon on the shoulder, then strode out of the room.

  What a tangle. He was only glad his mother hadn’t been there to witness the entire thing—though no doubt Mireleth was already on her way to tell Tinnueth her own slanted version of events.

  By the pale moon, at times like this he wished for the simplicity of battle.

  Boot heels ringing over the patterned stone floor, he made for Anneth’s rooms, and the mortal woman he had lied to—not once, but twice over. He hoped she would not despise him for the rest of their days.

  16

  Mara’s fury carried her all the way to Anneth’s rooms before subsiding to a dull smolder.

  “I made a mess of things,” she said, perching on the silk-draped couch in the sitting room. “The court must hate me now for speaking so bluntly.”

  “Not in the least,” Anneth said. “You were wonderful. I’d venture to say you even won the respect of the Hawthorne Lord—no mean feat.”

  “Your father.” Mara crossed her arms. “I can’t believe Bran didn’t see fit to mention the fact that he was a prince.”

  Anneth let out a sigh. “Getting my brother to part with words is like prying gold coins from a dragon.”

  “You have dragons here?” Mara leaned forward, temporarily distracted by the thought.

  “They are very rare, and possess cloaking magic that cannot be penetrated by Dark Elves. No one’s seen them for nearly a century. But enough of that. I think we both could use some refreshment.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I ate anything.”

  In fact, the knot of anxiety in her belly had been replaced by gnawing hunger. She recalled that Bran had handed her some hard bread and dried fruit during their ride to the Hawthorne Court, but that had been eons ago.

  Anneth closed her eyes and spoke a few words Mara didn’t understand.

  “There,” she said after a moment. “I’ve ordered nectar and cakes from the kitchens. We must clear a space on the table.”

  Mara helped tidy the low table set in front of the couch, and less than a minute later a tray materialized there. She blinked at it, understanding more clearly the lack of servants at the palace. Why employ people to transport such things as trays of refreshments when one could simply make them appear by magic?

  Anneth sat in the chair next to the couch and kicked off her jeweled sandals.

  “Fruit nectar and Amaranth cakes,” she said, offering a goblet and plate to Mara. “I hope you like them.”

  Mara took a bite, and sighed. The cake tasted like sunlight on her tongue. The nectar was a perfect blend of tart and sweet.

  When she’d finished the cake and drained half her goblet, she felt better. She wiped her fingers on one of the linen napkins, then glanced at Anneth.

  Ever since the scene in the throne room, where that nasty Dark Elf woman had stepped up and started throwing accusations about, a horrible suspicion had wormed through Mara. Although her mind shied away from the thought, she could not run from it any longer.

  “Was Bran really planning to marry that dreadful woman?” she asked, hoping to discover her answer in a roundabout way. The stark, unvarnished truth was too awful to contemplate.

  Anneth coughed and set down her goblet. “How much did my brother tell you about the prophecy?”

  “He said my presence was essential to saving Elfhame, and that he’d known of the prophecy all his life.”

  “He didn’t quote the exact words to you?” Anneth’s tone was strange.

  “No.” Foreboding prickled over Mara’s skin and she feared she’d been terribly right in her suspicions. “I take it he neglected to tell me something else of importance.”

  Please, no.

  “One might say that.” Anneth glanced down and busied herself with breaking one of the cakes into smaller pieces.

  “So he isn’t going to marry that woman?” Her heart beat fast with the implications.

  At that moment, Bran opened the door and strode into the room. Clearly he’d heard Mara’s last question, for he fixed her with his violet gaze.

  “No,” he said clearly. “I am not going to marry Mireleth. The only woman I plan to wed is you.”

  She jumped up, overturning the tray. It was as awful as she had feared.

  Juice splattered on the floor, and cake crumbs scattered over the table and couch cushions. Bran’s sister rose and hurried off to fetch a towel, but Mara simply stood there, staring at the Dark Elf prince before her.

  “I am marry
ing you,” Bran repeated. “As soon as possible.”

  “No.” She clutched her skirts in her fists, no doubt rumpling the fine fabric beyond repair, but she didn’t care. “I’m not wedding you.”

  Bran’s gaze flicked away from her, then back. “I know you find my appearance distasteful, my manner overbearing, and my land full of shadows. Nonetheless, I’m afraid the prophecy is very clear. If Elfhame is to be saved, I must marry the mortal woman who opens the door between our worlds. That woman is you.”

  She shook her head so hard some of the golden lights tumbled from her hair. “I won’t.”

  Her adventurous dream had truly become a nightmare.

  “I am sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I’m much to blame for not better preparing you for your fate.”

  “I feared you were going to kill me, but this is worse than I ever imagined.”

  She crossed her arms tightly in front of her, wishing she could wake up, wishing she had some place of refuge to flee to. Instead, she was trapped in the Hawthorne Palace, required to shackle herself to a monstrous Dark Elf.

  “If you do not marry me,” Bran said, his voice cold, “then we will all die. The Void will destroy us, Mara, and soon. Would you rather perish than make this sacrifice that will save not only yourself, but all of Elfhame?”

  She almost said yes, she preferred to die than be forced into such a union, but even through her bitter anger she could see how foolish that was.

  “Please tell me that marriage is a passing thing in your world,” she said, clinging to a shred of hope. “Something we can dissolve once the battle’s won.”

  “I wish I could give you the answer you want,” he said. “But in Elfhame, a wedding vow is a lifetime pledge. Is it not so with mortals?”

  She almost lied—but he would not believe her, and Anneth surely knew the truth from her studies.

  “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.”