by Anthea Sharp
It might be adventure, a voice in her mind whispered. It might be important.
This was true—but Fenna had seen the key, too. It would mean instant dismissal if a maid kept any trinket she found lying about the castle, and this glass key was no exception. Mara couldn’t keep it, even if she wanted to.
She and Fenna completed their early morning chores, and then Mara went to find Mrs. Glendel, the housekeeper.
“I’m sorry, I have to return you,” she whispered to the key, patting her pocket as she went down the narrow servant’s hallway to the housekeeper’s office. However it had come to be in the ash bucket, surely it belonged somewhere far grander.
Mrs. Glendel was going over her household lists by the light of an oil lamp, and looked up sharply when Mara came in.
“My apologies for bothering you,” Mara said, “but Fenna and I found something while cleaning out the hearths.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Glendel stood and held out her hand. “Give it over.”
Mara reached into her pocket, then paused. A knot of discomfort formed in her belly as her fingers met her handkerchief—and nothing else. There was no warm, heavy weight in her pocket.
“Well?” The housekeeper waggled her fingers. The starched cuff of her brown dress drew a sharp line across her wrist.
“It’s here,” Mara said, her breath tightening. “I know it is.”
She felt about in her pocket, jamming her fingers into the corners. Was there a stray hole the key had slipped out of?
All the seams were tightly sewn, however. In desperation, she turned out both pockets of her heavy woolen skirt. Her empty kerchief fluttered to the slate floor. Mrs. Glendel’s thin eyebrows rose higher in her seamed forehead.
“It seems you’ve misplaced the item, Miss Geary. What was it, pray tell?”
“A key. A strange glass key with a skeleton head.”
“Hm.” The housekeeper gave her a disapproving look. “No one’s reported such a loss. But you know that the place of every maid here depends on complete honesty. You have until tomorrow to find that key and bring it to me.”
“Of course.” Mara swallowed the sour taste of her own saliva.
“Then you are dismissed for now.” Mrs. Glendel sat back down and turned her attention to her papers.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mara bobbed a curtsey and let herself out the door.
She’d have to retrace every step and find that blasted key, wherever it had gotten itself to. Her job at the castle—little though she might love it—depended upon finding that key again.
Chapter 2
In the double-mooned realm of Elfhame, the halls of the Hawthorne Court were hushed, the dim corridors even more shadowed than usual. The Hawthorne Prince, Brannon Luthinor, strode in and out of patches of starlight thrown from the high windows onto the flagstones.
Although he was not pleased to be summoned to his father’s court, Bran let no hint of his feelings show. For this audience, he had replaited his black hair into formal warrior’s braids on either side of his face, and donned a court tunic of indigo silk embroidered with silver.
He’d even washed the mud off his boots. Court opinion was brutal, and though he was protected somewhat by his rank and power, it was always best to give the gossips nothing to fasten upon.
Just outside the ornately patterned silver doors of the throne room, Bran paused. He’d rather face the gyrewolves and twisted spiderkin threatening their border than set foot inside this room filled with courtiers speaking untruths and twisting their actions to suit their ambitions. But the robed servant standing outside the room was watching him expectantly, and there could be no escape.
Settling his jeweled sword more firmly at his hip, Bran took a deep breath, then nodded at the doorman. The servant waved his hand, summoning the small magic that would open the double doors.
“His Highness the Hawthorne Prince, Brannonilon Luthinor!”
The doorman’s voice rang out, and Bran stared impassively at the far wall as all eyes turned to him. A few gazes held admiration, others envy, but the worst were the ladies who viewed him as a means to an end, either for themselves or their daughters. That end being the Hawthorne Throne.
Their court was not the most powerful in Elfhame, but it was one of the oldest, and well placed among the seven ruling families.
Luckily, the circumstances of his birth provided an easy answer for why he was not yet married. It did not, however, provide him with a reasonable excuse for not taking mistresses—a fact that many of the women of the court liked to remind him of.
He’d had his share of dalliances, of course, but had no interest in weakening himself or his mission with misplaced attachment. Need for love made one vulnerable. He’d grown up learning that lesson, and had no desire to repeat it.
At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais, and upon it sat the Hawthorne Throne, occupied by Bran’s father, Calithilon Luthinor. The years lay lightly on his face, as was the way of their people, but silver threaded his once midnight hair, and his dark eyes held a weary cast.
Beside the ornately carved Hawthorne Throne stood a smaller, less elaborate chair where Bran’s mother, Tinnueth, sat. There was no trace of warmth or greeting in her expression, but that was no different from the reception he’d received from her all his life.
According to the gossip, the moment the prophecy had been pronounced over his newborn head, his mother had distanced herself. Although even with his younger sister, Anneth, their mother had never displayed an excess of affection.
“A heart like ice,” the nursery servants used to say after Tinnueth paid her obligatory visits to her young offspring.
Bran wasn’t supposed to understand, but he did. He’d grown up thinking he was flawed, unworthy of his mother’s care, and perhaps it had made him hard, but all good weapons must be made of stern stuff. Without that core of stone, he would not be half the warrior he was.
A warrior who held the fate of Elfhame on his shoulders—and that fate was growing more perilous every day.
From his dais, the Hawthorne Lord lifted his hand in a clear summons, his eyes meeting Bran’s. Letting no hint of his reluctance show on his face, Bran made his way toward his parents. He murmured greetings to the courtiers as he slid past them like water. Most let him go with a nod or reply, but his passage was halted when a particularly cloying young woman named Mireleth gripped his sleeve.
“I’m so glad you’re back at court, milord,” she said, in a low voice that was meant to be seductive.
He nodded and disengaged himself from her hold. Despite their few dalliances, he was not interested in pursuing a connection with the woman. She, however, seemed unable to grasp that fact.
“I’ll visit you later,” she called as Bran strode away.
He did not respond. Even if he’d fancied Mireleth, the prophecy was very clear concerning his fate. He was destined to marry some ungainly mortal. There was no escaping it, but his life would be a little less miserable if he did not fall in love in the meantime.
Soon enough he reached the dais and dipped into a formal bow before his parents.
“Prince Brannon, you took your time in coming,” his father said. “I sent that summons a quarter moon ago.”
“Your pardon, my lord.” Bran kept his tone level. “I could not leave the front until we’d closed the current breaches and reinforced the barrier.”
Even then, it was risky for him to be gone. As one of the leaders, and the strongest magic user among the Dark Elf forces, they couldn’t afford for him to be away from the battle for long. But ignoring his father’s summons would have been worse.
His mother gave a delicate sniff, conveying her disapproval and disappointment. Bran ignored her.
“Is the fight going well?” his father asked.
“Well enough.”
It was an outright lie, but Bran would say no more where the sharp ears of the courtiers might hear. Later, in the privacy of his father’s chambers, he would confide the de
sperate position the Dark Elves were in.
And although he’d been dreading the fulfillment of the prophecy his entire life, if it didn’t happen soon there would be nothing left to save. The Void creatures infiltrating their world would destroy Elfhame and all its courts. By now, Bran almost welcomed his fate. Almost.
“It’s good to have you back in the Hawthorne Court,” his father said. “Meet with me later in my library, and you can recount to me your glorious tales of battle.”
The look in Lord Calithilon’s eyes promised that Bran would know then why he’d been summoned. It was not something he looked forward to hearing—though if it had to do with the prophecy, then perhaps the news would not be so unwelcome. The fate of Elfhame was paramount to his own wishes.
“My lord.” Bran bowed again, then stepped away.
He hated the dance of protocol, the layers of meaning hidden behind veiled words. And he hated to wait, especially when the barrier was not nearly as strong as everyone thought. As soon as he could escape the court for the haven of his rooms, he’d contact the front and see how they were holding.
Halfway across the throne room, he glimpsed his sister standing near the wall and altered his course to meet her. She was alone, a glass of nectar in her hand. As he approached he could see her struggling to keep her features composed in the cool expression required of court protocol.
“Lady Anneth.” He bowed before her, and could not prevent the corner of his mouth from curling up into a brief smile. His sister was the one person at court he truly cared for, and missed.
“Bran.” She held up the golden glass of nectar to hide her grin. “I’m so glad you’re home. How long can you stay?”
He glanced about, checking to make sure no eavesdroppers hovered nearby. “Not long, I’m afraid. They need me back at the battle.”
Anneth’s blackberry-colored eyes lost their merry sparkle. “Truly?”
“Don’t look so unhappy. I’ll sup with you at eventide, and you can tell me all the gossip of the court. Have you any suitors?”
A faint blush stained her pale skin. “Not to speak of.”
Bran arched a brow at her. “We’ll see about that.”
“You have your own future to think about, as well. Now that father…” She busied herself with her glass of nectar.
“What?” Cold foreboding swept through him.
“It’s not for me to say—and besides, he’s only dropped hints here and there.” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “I don’t know anything for certain. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I will.” The sooner the better.
Bran glanced at the dais, to see Lady Tinnueth watching them with a calculating expression. What scheme were his parents brewing?
“I’ll see you at supper.” Bran made his sister a bow of farewell, then strode from the hall.
He did not slow his steps until he’d reached the privacy of his rooms in the family wing. Although he was not much in residence lately, everything was kept clean and ready for his arrival.
He wanted to throw the bedroom shutters wide to the dusky air and fill his lungs with freshness instead of the stultifying formality of court. Instead, he made sure they were firmly latched. To counter the dimness in the room, he conjured a flickering ball of foxfire. The pale blue light bobbed at his shoulder as he checked the door, then went over to his saddlebags. On his orders the servants had left them undisturbed, though the head houseman had frowned mightily when Bran requested they leave the unpacking for him to do.
He drew out his silver scrying bowl, then poured a measure of water from the ewer on the nightstand until the bottom of the bowl was covered. Slowly, he sank down on the forest-green carpet in the center of his bedroom. It was not as soft as the mosses he was used to perching upon, but it did have the advantage of being dry.
With the ball of foxfire hovering above his head, Bran took several deep breaths to focus his magic. He held the bowl between his cupped hands. The surface was lit with pale blue, and the dark shadow of his silhouette.
He spoke the Rune of Scrying. The hiss of the word of power twisted round the bowl. Light flared up and Bran squinted against that brightness. When it faded, he bent over the surface.
“Show me Hestil,” he said.
The image of the second-in-command of the Dark Elf forces appeared, shivering over the top of the water and then coming into focus: thin nose, narrow eyes the color of malachite, dark hair braided back from a battle-weary face.
“Well met in shadow,” Hestil said.
“And in starlight,” Bran answered, the code words assuring her that he was alone and not under duress. “How goes the fight?”
Her lips tightened. “We’re holding, but your magic is sorely missed. How soon can you return?”
Bran gave a sigh that fluttered the surface of the water, making Hestil’s reflection waver. The Dark Elves could not win. Every time they threw back the invaders, another breach opened and more twisted creatures flowed out of the crack between the worlds. Even if Bran revealed how dire the situation was and brought every magic-wielding elf to the front, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
But he would not share such hopeless thoughts with his second.
“I meet with my father later,” he said.
“Well, I hope your precious prophecy chooses to manifest soon. Doesn’t it say that during Elfhame’s greatest need, a doorway will open, bringing help?”
“That’s one interpretation.” Other than specifying that Bran must wed whatever mortal opened the door, the prophecy was annoyingly vague.
Hestil’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say the moment of need is fast approaching—especially if you dawdle overlong in your father’s court.”
“I’ll return as quickly as I can. I know how desperate our situation is.” He made his voice cold. It was not for Hestil to question her commander.
She dipped her head in apology. “I must go.”
“Of course. I’ll come soon.”
He waved his hand over the bowl and Hestil’s image disappeared. His own reflection stared up at him, skin pale as moonlight, slitted eyes filled with violet shadows, dark slashes of eyebrows drawn down in a frown.
Though he knew it was useless—he’d tried it hundreds of times—he spoke the Rune once more. The silver light flared about the circumference of the bowl, and he gave his command.
“Show me the woman of the prophecy.”
As usual, the water remained a blank pool of light, revealing nothing. Bran stared into it, willing something, anything, to appear. The force of his need and frustration burned through him.
“Show her to me,” he demanded again, pulling deeply on his wellspring of magic.
The surface of the water shuddered.
He leaned forward, barely breathing. As if through a mist, he made out the figure of a mortal woman running through a forest. Her long mud-colored hair was tangled, and he glimpsed her face for one moment—the smooth curve of her cheek, a stubborn tilt to her chin, desperation in her strange blue eyes.
Then she was gone.
Only empty water stared up at him. His power subsided and the tremble in his fingers sent a faint ripple across the surface. Bran passed his hand over the bowl, dismissing the magic, then gently set the silver bowl aside. Closing his eyes, he fixed the glimpse of the woman firmly in his mind.
She did not seem old or disfigured, she looked healthy, and even through the scrying bowl he sensed the determination of her spirit.
Thank the double moons.
Now if he could somehow drag her through the sealed doorway, there might be hope for Elfhame.
Chapter 3
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 square al
ong 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.
