Elfhame (Skeleton Key)

by Anthea Sharp

  It was humiliating, but Mara did as the housekeeper asked, handing over each item of clothing and then turning about with her hands in the air. Of course, Mrs. Glendel found nothing.

  “It’s a good thing no one has reported any such key as missing,” the housekeeper said. “If they ever do, you’ll be hunted down and arrested by the king’s men.”

  Mara didn’t think it likely that would happen, as the blasted key seemed to have chosen her alone for its pranks. In fact, she had a nasty suspicion it would rematerialize in her pocket the moment she left the castle grounds.

  She hastily re-donned her clothing, trying not to shiver from the cold castle air. Frustration scraped her lungs with every breath.

  “Will I receive any of my pay?” she asked, trying to keep the temper from her voice.

  The housekeeper regarded her for a moment, her expression softening slightly. “You were a hard worker, I must admit. I’ll see that you get half of it. No references, of course.”

  Of course. The unfairness of it flared up inside Mara, and she clenched her hands. Half a month’s pay was a trifling amount, and certainly not enough to travel on.

  She’d have to return to Little Hazel in disgrace. Her parents would take her back, of course, but she could just see the look of reproach in her mother’s eyes when Mara told them she’d been dismissed.

  Her siblings would be unbearable, and Thom, the woodcutter’s son, would no doubt renew his wooing of her with his usual single-mindedness.

  Was that what her life was meant to be? A resigned marriage to an uninteresting fellow, and then picking up kindling in the Darkwood until her body was too bent with age to venture out?

  “Sit.” Mrs. Glendel nodded to the straight-backed chair in the corner. “I’ll arrange for your pay while we wait for Fenna to return.”

  Trapped, Mara sat, mentally cursing the key. She’d wanted adventure in her life, but not like this. What good was magic if it only booted her back into the life she was trying to escape?

  After a few more uncomfortable minutes marked only by the scratching of the housekeeper’s pen, Fenna returned.

  “I didn’t find anything,” she reported.

  Mrs. Glendel nodded, as if she’d expected as much. “Very well. Mara, you are free to gather your things. Stop by my office when you’re packed up. And Fenna, you’d best get one of the other maids to help you with the hearths.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Fenna bobbed a curtsey, then turned to Mara. She looked a little regretful, but perhaps that was because her workload had just doubled. “Goodbye, Mara.”

  “I wish you well,” Mara said. She refrained from telling the other maid to steer well clear of strange keys shining in the compost heap.

  Fenna hurried off, and Mara made her way more slowly to the servants’ quarters. Although the room she shared with the other maid was in disarray from the girl’s search, nothing was torn or destroyed. Fenna had a good heart, despite her suspicions.

  It didn’t take long for Mara to bundle up her extra set of clothing and her two books. She donned her cloak, relaced her boots, and soon enough was back in Mrs. Glendel’s office.

  “Here you are.” The housekeeper handed her a small sack. “You’d best be off now.”

  The sack clinked when Mara took it, the weight dismayingly light. But what could she do?

  “Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t mean it, then tucked her paltry pay into her pocket and heaved up her bundle.

  It would not be a comfortable walk back to Little Hazel, but at least she’d be home before sundown.

  Steps heavy, she traversed the cold corridors of Castle Raine one last time and let herself out the servants’ door. The morning fog was burning off, showing glimpses of pale blue sky, though the air was still chilly.

  Servants bustled about in the courtyard, and she heard the muffled whinny of a horse, but no one paid her any mind as she went to the small postern gate. The shadow of the tall grey walls fell over her as she stepped out, leaving the castle—and all of her hopes for the future—behind.

  A soft chime rang through the halls of the Hawthorne Court, signaling that the Lord and Lady’s reception hours were now at an end.

  Bran rerolled the scroll of border maps he’d been studying, and rose from the table. He knew the seven courts of Elfhame by heart, of course. Four of them, including Hawthorne, lay in a rough circle along the magical barrier protecting their realm. The other three were enclosed by the outer courts.

  He’d spent more than a turn concentrating on the courts flanking Hawthorne—Nightshade and Moonflower. So far, he’d found nothing that would give the Dark Elf warriors an overlooked advantage in their war against the Void. The barrier between the worlds that his forebears had erected still pulsed with magic, standing strong. Unfortunately, this time the Void was stronger.

  A tap sounded at the door.

  “Come,” Bran called, dropping his hand to rest on the hilt of his bejeweled court sword. Despite its ornamentation, it was a sharp and serviceable blade.

  “Your Highness.” The door swung open to reveal a pageboy. “Your father will see you now in his library.”

  Bran nodded. He stepped out and reset the magical lock securing his room, then followed the boy through the patches of faint moonlight filling the halls. He had no need of an escort to his father’s library, of course, but there was no arguing with the rigidity of court protocol.

  The boy left him before the tall ebony door. Bran rapped once and went in, smothering the spurt of nervousness that tried to rise up in his belly. He was no longer a child, but commander of the Dark Elf forces and a powerful magic wielder. Whatever his father wanted, Bran had no need of fear.

  “Brannon.” The Hawthorne Lord turned from the window, where the landscape of dark trees was turning silver from the light of the newly risen palemoon.

  “My lord.” Bran bowed. “I must tell you of the battle.”

  “Of course—but we can sip wine and sit like civilized folk. Pour out two glasses, if you please.”

  Bran went to the sideboard, where his father kept a decanter of elderberry wine and several crystal goblets etched with twining vines. He deftly poured them each a glass. The scent of the wine tickled his nose—dark and pungent, the color a deep purple that was almost black.

  Lord Calithilon had settled in one of the armchairs in his sitting area. His indigo eyes glowed softly as Bran approached and handed him a goblet.

  “I believe this is one of the finest vintages we’ve yet produced,” Lord Calithilon said. He brought the glass to his nose and sniffed appreciatively. “Now, sit and tell me of your exploits in battle.”

  Bran took the chair opposite his father and set his wine on the small side table.

  “I’m afraid I’ve no heroic tales to recount. The fighting is brutish and difficult, and we’re sustaining losses we can’t afford.”

  Lord Calithilon raised one thin, dark eyebrow. “When Void opened the first breach to our world, our warriors had no trouble containing the creatures. Like every other incursion in our history, the Void attacks, we repel its efforts, and it passes us by once more.”

  “This time is different,” Bran said. “The first small breach opened nearly four doublemoons ago. For a time, the creatures issuing forth were easily dealt with. But now bigger creatures have begun to emerge—things not so simple to kill or return to the Void. The barrier is weakening, with more breaches opening every brightmoon. Our forces are spread dangerously thin. Surely you and the other court rulers have read the reports?”

  “It is difficult to believe that our forces cannot prevail, as they have in the past. Dark Elves are the most powerful magic users and warriors in the known worlds.”

  Bran’s fingers itched, and with effort, he kept his hands claws from springing forth. It was that kind of complacent arrogance that would be the downfall of Elfhame.

  “Not powerful enough for this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Lord Calithilon looked taken aba
ck for a moment, then leaned forward and smiled. There was something very uncomfortable in his smile, and Bran knew he was not going to like his father’s next words.

  “If things truly are getting so much worse,” Lord Calithilon said, “then I’m sure you’ll be eager to put a new plan in motion. You know, of course, that the whole realm, and certainly our court in particular, has been waiting to see the prophecy foretold at your birth come to pass.”

  “High time for it,” Bran could not help but say.

  A pleased expression crossed his father’s face. “Exactly. Which is why we think the best course would be to announce your betrothal.”

  “My betrothal?” Bran rose to his feet, unable to contain his visceral reaction. “No. Out of the question. The prophecy is very clear on the fact that I am to wed a mortal woman.”

  “Which is why your mother and I are in complete agreement.” Lord Calithilon stood as well, facing Bran. “For years we’ve been waiting for the prophecy to manifest. It’s time to help it along—past time, judging from your accounts. By announcing your betrothal to a Dark Elf, surely fate will take note, and produce the mortal you are supposed to marry.”

  “You can’t dictate to fate.” Bran stared into his father’s eyes, aware that the power and will he saw there was a match for his own. “The woman will appear when it is time.”

  Lord Calithilon waved an impatient hand. “You said yourself that time is running out. Before you leave the Hawthorne Court, we will celebrate your betrothal and set a date for the wedding. Say, in one doublemoon? How will the battle be going at that point?”

  “Badly.” Bran pulled in a deep breath through his nose, trying to contain the temper simmering in his belly. “I don’t believe this is the answer.”

  His father gave him an arch look, then paused to take up his goblet and have a sip of wine. “Has the prophecy showed any signs of stirring?”

  “I glimpsed a mortal girl today, when I was scrying.”

  “See, then! Our plan is working already. Your mother will be most pleased to hear it.”

  “It’s not because of this ridiculous scheme,” Bran said.

  “Can you prove otherwise? Now sit down and stop baring your claws at me. We can discuss this like sensible men, not animals.”

  Chagrined, Bran glanced down to see the sharp ebony tips of his claws protruding past his fingertips. It was very bad manners, and a sign of how quickly his father had upset him that he’d lost control of his reactions.

  “Your pardon.” He retracted his claws and sat. “If I were to agree to this plan—which I’m not saying I am—who would the lucky fiancée be?”

  Even as he asked the question, he had the creeping suspicion he already knew.

  “I understand you’ve always had a fancy for Mireleth Andion, and she has already agreed to undertake the role of your sham fiancée.”

  His father’s words confirmed his guess, and sourness settled in Bran’s belly. He took a sip of wine to try and clear the taste of defeat from his mouth.

  “Mireleth and I were once companions,” he admitted. “But that affair is long over.”

  “All the better—she won’t distract you from your battles.”

  Bran’s gaze went to the window, where the moon was now sailing above the trees. Silver light illuminated the pale blossoms in the nearby meadow and filtered through the forest, stitching patterns of leaf and shadow over the mossy ground.

  “What if the mortal girl from the prophecy never materializes?” He spoke his greatest fear aloud.

  What if, somehow, they had all misread the intent of the prophecy? What if he’d spent his life in service to an empty promise? The thought made him cold.

  “Then, according to the blasted thing, all Elfhame will be lost, and it won’t matter who you marry. Come now, Brannon. Things can’t continue as they are, you’ve made that clear. We must take charge, and this is the best way to do it. Will you agree to the betrothal?”

  Eyes still fixed on the moonlit forest, Bran gave a slow nod. “Very well.”

  He could see no use in defying his parents. Perhaps they were right, and such a drastic action would wake the slumbering prophecy. He must take the chance, before everything he cared for slipped into oblivion.

  Mara’s seventeenth birthday dawned sunny and clear. She lay beneath her colorful quilt for a moment, staring at the familiar ceiling of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. The bumpy plaster had always seemed like a miniature landscape, and she’d spent hours imagining herself as a tiny being walking over the ceiling, armed with a needle for a sword, encountering strange creatures and having all sorts of adventures.

  Too bad her attempt to leave home had ended in disaster, and she’d nothing to show for it but a thin bag of coins. The blasted key had not rematerialized after all. It seemed to have done its work in ousting her from the castle, then disappeared for good.

  She blew out a long breath, pushing away the creeping sense of defeat that shadowed her thoughts. She refused to believe that she would wake to this view every morning for the rest of her life. Surely she must belong somewhere, beyond Little Hazel, or even the country of Raine itself. One day, she’d find that place.

  Holding that determination close, she got up and donned her favorite dress. She’d used all her pin money to buy it off a traveling merchant last summer. Clearly some noble’s castaway, there had been enough salvageable material for Mara to combine it with one of her other gowns and make a whole new garment. The sleeves and over-bodice were light blue silk, with bands of gold-embroidered trim, flowing down to the full skirt. It was rather impractical for doing housework, but she didn’t care. She’d put on an apron. Today was her birthday, after all.

  When she came downstairs, her mother looked her up and down, then handed her the wooden spoon to stir the porridge.

  “Good morning to you,” she said. “Up bright and early, I see.”

  Mara snagged an apron from the cupboard, then took the spoon and replaced her mother in front of the cast-iron stove and began to stir the lumpy oats.

  “This is sleeping late, compared to the hours at the castle. We’d be up before dawn to light the hearths.”

  “A pity your time there wasn’t a success.” Her mother’s voice held questions.

  Ones she’d never get the answers to, as far as Mara was concerned. She concentrated on stirring. “I’m sure something else will come along.”

  She hadn’t explained why she’d been turned out of Castle Raine. It wasn’t as though she’d actually stolen anything. She could try and tell them about the magical key, but her parents were the practical kind. Despite living at the edge of the Darkwood they gave little heed to the old tales, and always had a commonplace explanation for any odd occurrences.

  The dancing lights she’d glimpsed that once in the forest? Nothing more than fireflies out of season. The enormous black boar with glowing eyes that roamed the deep ravines? A frightened hunter’s exaggeration.

  They did not approve of the book of fanciful stories she’d discovered in a used bookshop during their yearly visit to the city of Meriton, and they certainly did not understand why she wanted to leave Little Hazel.

  “Thom the woodcutter’s son is a perfectly nice boy,” her mother had remarked on more than one occasion. “Give up your silly notions and settle down, Mara. I’ll help you look after the children.”

  Heavens, no.

  “Come with me to market today,” her mother now said. “Perhaps we can find you something nice for your birthday.”

  “I wondered if you’d forget,” Mara said, sliding the pot of cooked oatmeal off the stove.

  “Forget the day you were born? Not likely. You were a noisy child coming into the world, Mara Geary, yelling to wake the dead. It was a morning much like this, in fact, clear and with a bit of warmth. Now, is our breakfast ready?”

  Mara dished up wooden bowls of porridge while her mother called the rest of the family to breakfast. They all gathered around the long table, and Mar
a couldn’t help smiling. Much as her family might annoy her at times, she still loved them.

  In addition to the oatmeal, there were dried apples, honeycomb, and milk from the neighbor’s cow. It tasted much better than the food the servants were given at the castle, and Mara gave a contented sigh as she took a bite of honeycomb.

  “Mara and I are off to market after breakfast,” her mother said. “I thought we could take some fresh nettles for barter. Lily and Pansy, cut me some before you go off to school. And Mara, we’ll take eggs along, as well. Mrs. Weir is always happy to give us some good trout in exchange.”

  “Don’t cut all the nettles,” Mara’s elder sister, Seanna, said. “We need some for our studies with the herbwife.”

  Their mother gave her a sharp look. “Plenty of nettle patches all over. Old Soraya doesn’t need to raid ours.”

  Sean nudged his twin’s shoulder. “We can gather some from beside the baker’s.”

  The twins had been apprenticed to the herbwife since last fall, in an arrangement that seemed to suit everyone.

  Mara’s father, a man of little words, finished his breakfast, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and departed for work at his small brewery located on the outskirts of the village. He and a good friend had started it up ten years ago, and everyone scoffed at the notion. Little Hazel was too tiny a village to support a brewery!

  But their beers and mead had turned out to be excellent, and they now had a nice export business going, with vendors and even a few inns all over Raine carrying Geary’s Meads and Ales.

  Mara glanced around their cozy cottage, at her family who all seemed content with the fit of their daily lives. Well, except for Pansy, who had already mapped out her future away from Little Hazel and seemed to have no doubts about it.

  Mara wondered, not for the first time, what was the matter with her. Why did she never quite belong? What was the restless itch she’d felt just under her skin ever since she’d been a child?