Elfhame (Skeleton Key)

by Anthea Sharp

  The unfamiliar stars spun above his head, and the world seemed to tilt.

  He reached to steady her. She flinched, and was surprised to feel his hands were warm on her shoulders, not corpse cold. A strange sensation coursed through her, a buzzing that centered on her injured arm. He dropped one hand and gently took her arm, and she let him straighten it, though the movement made her hiss with agony.

  Thin lips turned down in a frown, he passed his hand over her arm. The pain lessened somewhat, and she let out a relieved breath, though she could not help noticing that his fingertips ended in hard ebony claws. He truly seemed more monster than man.

  “Naresta,” he said. Help is nearby.

  “I don’t trust you,” she said. “What kind of being are you? Do you even understand what I’m saying?”

  He gave her a look she could not interpret. “Tolo.” Come.

  She could not gaze overlong on his frightful features, but he was offering to help, and she didn’t have any other options. Mara took a step, then nearly collapsed. The adrenaline that had carried her through pursuit and attack had gone, leaving her shaky and filled with pulsing pain.

  With a muttered curse, he swept her up in his arms. She barely had the presence of mind to keep hold of her knife as he bore her through the silvery grasses.

  His stride was smooth, and it seemed to take no effort to carry her. Some of his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed her face, and she smelled the dusty scent of hawthorn blossoms. She was too afraid of him to struggle in his arms.

  “Gartong,” he said. Hold tight.

  He was a being of few words—but at least she was able to understand them. Though it seemed their communication was only one-way.

  He shifted her in his arms, then lunged up. It took a moment for her stomach to settle, and then she realized they were on a horse. A very large black horse that seemed to have neither saddle nor bridle. He resettled her across his lap, holding her securely yet carefully. Her head rested against his chest, where she was relieved to hear a heartbeat. Her legs draped over his, and had he been a human man it would have been embarrassingly intimate.

  But this strange, stern creature, despite seeming somewhat human, was certainly not a mortal man. If she were to guess, she would name him one of the fearsome Dark Elves out of legend. And she had fallen firmly into his clutches.

  The horse moved into a walk, then a faster gait that was smooth as water. Mara listened to the Dark Elf’s heart beneath her ear and wondered what her fate was to be, and how she might escape it.

  By the seven bright stars! Bran could not believe he’d found the human woman he’d seen in his vision—and nearly lost her to a creature of the Void.

  He didn’t know how the abomination had penetrated the barrier undetected, but it was a very bad sign. As was the appearance of the girl, if the prophecy was to be believed. Elfhame’s darkest hour must be nearly upon them.

  She was a brave thing, he had to admit, even armed with that laughable blade. The fact she’d managed to cut the monster was impressive. But how strange she looked, with her soft, blunt features and small, clawless hands. She’d said she didn’t trust him—as if she had any choice in the matter.

  His first impulse had been to take her back to the Hawthorne Court, so they might be married immediately. But she was injured, and the camp at the border was much closer than his father’s court. After they tended her wounded arm, and made sure she was well enough to travel, then the prophecy could be fulfilled.

  Cautiously, he glanced down, to see that she was sleeping in his arms. The determination that had filled her face was smoothed away, and she looked vulnerable and young. His muscles tensed again at the thought of the Void creature attacking her, and a strange possessiveness welled up in him. He made a swift vow to the absent moon to do whatever he must to keep her safe.

  In less than a half-turn, he crested a rise and saw the soft glow of the border camp ahead. The woman in his arms made a quiet moan of pain. Without thinking, he gently smoothed her mud-colored hair away from her face.

  With his knee he nudged Fuin, his faithful steed, into a canter. The guards at the perimeter lifted their hands in silent greeting as he passed. On the horizon, the first light of the brightmoon washed out the stars.

  When he reached the center of camp, he slid off his horse. Though he landed as lightly as he could, the girl’s eyes flew open and she stiffened in his arms.

  “Hush,” he said to her. “All is well.”

  Whatever magic lay between them, she seemed to understand. Her body relaxed, though she raised her head, surveying the tents and warriors.

  “Are you at war?” she asked.

  He made no reply. There would be time enough, later, to explain the dire situation the Dark Elves were faced with, and her part in saving them.

  The healer’s tent was lit inside with golden everflame lanterns. Avantor, leader of the healing hands, hurried over when Bran strode in. He glanced at the human, and his eyes flared with questions.

  “Void ichor burn,” Bran said. “Her right arm.”

  “Lay her there,” the healer said, gesturing to an unoccupied cot.

  Bran gently deposited the woman, then stood back while Avantor peeled the sleeve of her gown away from her blistered skin. She let out a hiss of pain, then looked up at Bran.

  “Will it leave a scar?” she asked.

  He did not know, and only pressed his lips together in reply.

  She let out a low breath. “I don’t know why I bother asking. You don’t understand me, and all you do is give me that hideous glare.”

  Bran opened his mouth to answer that he was not glaring at her, let alone considered hideous, but Avantor waved him back.

  “Give me room to work,” the healer said.

  Bran nodded and took a step away. He had some rudimentary ability to heal, but Avantor was far more skilled, and had spent years honing his abilities.

  Humming a song of soothing, the healer passed his hands over the mortal’s burned flesh. She closed her eyes, a look of blessed relief crossing her face. It had been brave of her, to bear the pain so long without protest.

  As Bran watched, Avantor made a second pass, golden light radiating from his palms. The reddened skin turned to pink, the blisters faded, but the ichor would leave its mark, a faint etching of lines on her skin. Thank the distant moon it had not burned her down to the bone.

  “Her forearm will be weak and the skin tender for a quarter moon,” Avantor said. “And it will leave a scar. I’m sorry. The injury was not serious enough to call forth my deepest healing songs.”

  “I understand.” Though Bran wanted his bride whole and unscarred, Avantor must conserve his power to tend more grievous wounds. There were few enough Dark Elf warriors standing whole upon the field as it was.

  “Rest now,” Bran said to the woman, who seemed already half asleep.

  She opened her eyes fully at the sound of his voice.

  “Wait,” she said. “What is your name?”

  He hesitated a moment. His full, formal name might be too difficult for her. Should he introduce himself as the Hawthorne Prince, or would that make him even more intimidating in her eyes?

  She clearly took his silence for incomprehension. With an exaggerated movement, she pointed to herself.

  “I am Mara.” She tapped her chest with her uninjured hand. “Mara. You?” She pointed back to him.

  It was a simple name, and he decided to return it in kind.

  “Bran,” he said, putting his own hand on his chest.

  Her gaze followed the motion, and he saw her shiver at the sight of his partially sheathed claws. Then her gaze darted back to his face. Her eyes held more gold than mud, illuminated by the everflame, and he stared, caught by that brightness.

  “Bran,” she said.

  The sound of his name in her mouth sent a jolt through him, as though the prophecy had been waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce. He suppressed the feeling, and made her a slight b
ow.

  “Mara.” It was not displeasing, as far as mortal names went.

  Her lips bent into a slight smile and she closed her eyes.

  Bran stared at her a long moment, studying the curves of her face—so different from the angular planes of his own people. Avantor cleared his throat.

  “Are you in need of anything else, my lord?” the healer asked.

  “No.” Bran gave himself a mental shake. “I’ll be consulting with Hestil. Summon me if there’s any change.”

  “There should not be. She’ll sleep for several turns, and be a little unsteady on her feet when she wakes.”

  “Fetch me then,” Bran said.

  He hoped there would not be an attack while Mara was convalescing. The sooner he could get her away from the front and to the safety of court, the better.

  Hestil was in the command tent, leaning over an array of maps spread out on the low table. She straightened when Bran walked in, and raised one eyebrow.

  “My scouts tell me you arrived with a human woman. Could it be that the long-awaited prophecy is finally in motion?”

  “Yes.” He nodded at the maps. “Have there been any more incursions beyond the ones marked?”

  She made an annoyed sound. “For just a moment, forget you are a commander, and answer as though you have a heart. What do you think of her?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.” It never had, not when he’d grown up bound by prophecy.

  “Nonsense. You have to marry the girl. It’s better if you don’t find her odious.”

  “She’s human.” He shrugged. “They are somewhat different than our kind.”

  “Our kind. You know as well as I that before the doorway was closed, Dark Elves and humans interbred. Just because the Hawthorne line never intermingled doesn’t mean she’s of completely alien blood.”

  “My mother would disagree.”

  Tinnueth had always found the idea of the Hawthorne Heir married to a lowly mortal quite distasteful. Which was why she’d probably concocted the scheme to betroth him to Mireleth.

  “Just because part-blood mortals almost never showed Dark Elf characteristics doesn’t mean they’re not compatible mates,” Hestil said.

  Mates. Bran could not help the shiver of distaste that went through him at the thought. “The prophecy says nothing of breeding. Only that we must wed.”

  His second-in-command regarded him a long moment, then gave a small shake of her head and turned back to the maps. “There’s been a breach further south. We were able to contain it, but the forces are spread too thin.”

  “One creature got through,” Bran said, his voice tight. “It attacked Mara, and that might have been the end of us all, right then. We must increase the patrols.”

  Hestil’s eyes widened. “Muck and mire. Was she badly injured?”

  “Burned, but not too badly. She’s resting in the healer’s tent. I killed the creature.”

  “Of course. And you know we haven’t enough warriors to add extra patrols.”

  Bran clenched his fist and tapped it against the sword at his waist. What Hestil said was true—they were desperately shorthanded.

  “Up the ration of puffdust,” he finally said. “We’ll all be short on sleep, but the alternatives are worse.”

  Hestil frowned, but made no argument. They both knew prolonged use of the stimulant could cause debilitating headaches. Still, they had no choice.

  “I’ll go out now,” Bran said. “Who’s in most need of a rest?”

  “Lieth. She’s been pulling double shifts since you left.”

  There was no censure in her voice, but Bran felt a stab of guilt anyway. Lieth was the strongest magic user the Dark Elves had, after himself. But she was not also heir to a court, and subject to the beck and call of an imperious father.

  “I’ll send her in right away,” he said.

  The brightmoon had just cleared the horizon, spilling milky light over the land, as Bran stepped out of the command tent. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the light, then went to fetch Fuin.

  It took less than a turn of riding to find Lieth. The glow of her magic was a simple guide, though Bran noted the light wavered unsteadily as he approached. He dismounted at Lieth’s rough camp and tethered Fuin, then hurried to the clearing where she held the Void at bay.

  She stood, bathed in a halo of purple light, one hand upraised to try and maintain the barrier. With her other hand, she directed a stream of lightning at a huge, lumbering creature who had obviously issued from the Rift. Its five eyes glowed menacingly atop an elongated neck and it sported a maw of wickedly sharp teeth, but thankfully its stumpy legs did not propel it very quickly.

  Bran summoned his magic, adding his own powerful blast to Lieth’s attack. With a wet whump, the creature exploded. Lieth staggered back a step, but to her credit kept the flow of power going to the barrier. Quickly, Bran stepped up beside her, ready to lend a steadying shoulder.

  “Prince Brannon. Good to see you,” she said with a weak smile.

  By the light of the risen moon she looked wretched, her pale skin tinged ashen, her eyes faded and barely glowing.

  “I have the barrier,” Bran said, opening his hand and letting magic flow from his palm. “You need a rest.”

  “I’ll just lie down in my tent—” she began.

  “No. I insist you return to the main camp and see Avantor. You’re dangerously close to draining your magic dry.”

  She regarded him a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “I won’t argue with you, commander. The breach here is nearly sealed, but I couldn’t close it and fend off the creatures at the same time. I’m sorry to say that I lost my mount to a gyrewolf.” She dropped her gaze to the trampled grasses.

  “The Void attacks are growing more aggressive. You did well to hold the border for this long.”

  And he was an idiot for letting Hestil send her out alone.

  It was fortunate that one of the slower Riftlings had emerged, not another gyrewolf or spiderkin. Had he been much later, Elfhame might have seen an influx of creatures they could not contain.

  Thank the prophecy the mortal woman had appeared at last.

  “Take Fuin,” he said. “I’ll finish closing the breach, then come back on foot. That way I can check the border more closely.”

  He did not want to be unable to reach Mara quickly, but Lieth was nearly dead upon her feet. He could not make her march back to the main camp, and he did not want her to wait until he finished sealing the border—not with the way the light in her eyes was dimming.

  As if to mock his thoughts, the breach in the barrier bulged, and two creatures emerged: a chittering spiderkin and a red-eyed wolf.

  Lieth raised her hands, but Bran grabbed her arm. “No. I command you to go. Now.”

  He knew she would obey. None dared go against the Hawthorne Prince when he used such a tone.

  A poor leader he would be if he allowed the second-best magic user they had to drain her powers to the bone. As it was, it would take at least a brightmoon for her to regain her strength.

  He was powerful enough to handle two foes and maintain the barrier by himself. Not with perfect ease, but he could not be distracted by worrying that Lieth was about to collapse from exhaustion.

  As she turned and trudged over to where Fuin was tied, Bran sent a blast of magic at the spiderkin. It flew backward, temporarily disabled. He drew his sword and, still keeping some power flowing to the breach, ran forward to meet the gyrewolf.

  It was overeager, and leaped straight at him. Bran ducked and thrust his sword up into the wolf’s belly, then dodged the shower of ichor as the creature thudded to the ground. It twitched once, then was still.

  Behind him, he heard the thud of hooves as Lieth left.

  The spiderkin righted itself and began scuttling toward him. Bran sent an extra jolt of power into the breach to keep it closed, then turned his magic on his attacker. It would take more force than he wanted to use to dispatch it the way
he and Lieth had killed the lumberer, especially since he must make sure the border was secure afterward.

  With a grim smile, he raised his sword again. One of the reasons he was the strongest magic user among the warriors was that he knew when to conserve his power and use his blade instead. True, he had unusually deep reserves of magical energy, but his fighting prowess helped him maintain that power rather than constantly spending it in battle.

  As the spiderkin circled, claws clacking, Bran pulled out his dagger with his left hand. Best to end this soon. He must seal the breach and return to Mara before she woke. He balanced the blade, then sent it hurtling toward one of the creature’s glowing red eyes. It struck true and the spiderkin let out a screech of pain and anger.

  In that moment of distraction, Bran leaped forward, sword swinging. It did not take long before the carcass of the spiderkin joined that of the gyrewolf. He retrieved his dagger, then carefully wiped the ichor from both blades before re-sheathing them.

  Now to seal the border.

  He studied the small tear in the barrier surrounding Elfhame. Behind it, he could feel the pulsing power of the Void, hungry and relentless.

  As he had told his father, the Void had never before pressed so closely against their world. It concentrated its attack on the portion of the barrier guarded by Hawthorne and Nightshade, and every time their warriors sealed a breach, the Void managed to open a new one. The other courts had sent reinforcements as well, keeping only enough warriors to patrol the boundaries of their own territories.

  But there were not enough Dark Elves to contain the sustained assault from the Void. Not this time.

  Bran drew in a long breath and glanced at the full orb of the moon. Planting his feet firmly in the soil, he lifted his hands and drew upon his wellspring of power.

  Violet light streamed from his hands, splashing across the invisible barrier that encircled Elfhame. He found the edges of the tear, and pulled them back together, weaving his magic back and forth to create a strong seal. When it was mended, he raised his voice and spoke the word of binding.

  White light flared across the clearing. The border was secure.